


Danse Macabre

by Belladdictedd



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Stiles, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Fight Against the System, Fugitive, I need to stop doing this to Stiles, M/M, On the Run, SHIELD Agent Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles-centric, Thriller, Wild Ride, i think, long fic, no supernatural, plot heavy, why does bad things keep happening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:33:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladdictedd/pseuds/Belladdictedd
Summary: Agent Stiles Stilinski. The Level 7 young agent that succeeded STRIKE Team Delta, previously Blackwidow and Hawkeye’s unit before they were assigned to the Avengers Initiative. An expert in hand-to-hand combat, excellent marksmanship, exceptionally intelligent and quick on his feet. Highly regarded within the agency, he’s easy-going and known for going off the books and doing things his own special way. A young prodigy recruited by none other than Nick Fury himself.Who would’ve thought that he’d end up being the most wanted fugitive in the United States of America?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, James "Bucky" Barnes/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 77
Kudos: 364





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A New Fic, my second baby!!! This is a new genre I've been meaning to try out for a while and this is going to be a wild ride. Still crossover bc we don't have enough crossover Stiles fic, esp in Avengers (at this point my repertoire is going to be only crossover fics). Took me quite a while to figure out the title but I think it fits, ish? It's going to be a moderately long fic, but not as long as my first one--which is still ongoing yeet. Thankyou so much for participating in the poll (if you did) and here's a sneak peek of the fic! Get ready for jam-packed actions, emotion, pain and tension--both aggressive and sexual ;)--galore!!!! This is going to be so much fun!!! The plot is insane and I'm having so much fun writing it~ Tags will be added as we go along. 
> 
> Please leave comments, kudos and enjoy the fic (because those make my day <3).

Downtown NYC was the picture of chaos—with choppers flying high, disturbing the stark cold night air with their turbulent winds and blinding spotlight. Constantly moving, in search of their nimble target.

Below, multiple police cars painted the buildings with jarring noisy hues of red and blue, speeding down the lanes. On another side, two deep black cars with reinforced windows sped down another lane, following three dark blue-clad agents on their bikes weaving through the minimal traffic. 

On the forefront of the chaos was one man. Covered in black, camouflaging with the night—as if he was born out of darkness, his midnight coat wildly thrashed in the harsh winds. Like a matador leading his bull, he held the attention of the squad hunting him like a deer, leading them on in a game of cat and mouse.

In the dark, the man smirked before skidding his bike to a rough turn, sending him straight into the direction of a night market. 

The cars stopped behind him whilst the three agents on their bikes chased him through the mass of people and products. 

Hysteria followed in their wake, the man slithering between stalls with expert precision whilst the agents following him looked like dolts in comparison, overturning the stalls and breaking merchandises. 

A rush of curses from stand owners and tourists followed them like a mob, but the agents ignored them to chase their target who was constantly outrunning them. They followed him like a moth to a flame, into alleyways and main streets before one turn led them to a bridge with a police barricade on the other side. 

The man swerved and stopped his reckless driving. Body half on the bike and half balancing on the road. The agents immediately hopped off their bikes and pulled out their agency issued guns, aiming right at him. 

He was cornered, body inches away from the railing of the bridge atop a river. 

“Give it up.” One of the agents warned him, his finger hovering over the trigger. “You’re trapped.”

The mysterious man looked behind him into the dead end of a deep fall into deeper destructive waters, then turned to face the three agents with a mocking smile on his face and an alluring tone in his voice. “I don’t think so.”

Before any of them could move, the man fully turned and leapt over the railings before plummeting down and out of their sights. 

One of the agents yelped before running to the railing in hopes of catching him. He turned back to his two senior agents who was stood there doing nothing. Confused, he felt the need to state what just happened. “He—he killed himself!”

“No, he escaped.”

The panicked agent looked down across the bridge once more, at the rushing water that seemed unsurvivable. “No one could survive that fall.”

“Yeah. Normally no one could. No one but him, that is.” The leader of the trio ran his hand through his hair in frustration. 

“Was that really him, then?” The youngest one of the three asked the man in the front, looking over the bridge. “Sorry, I just got assigned to this task force—I’ve never met him.”

The leader eyed the new and motivated recruit with curiosity glinting in his eyes. “The one and only.”

Biting on his lips, the younger struggle to stay silent whilst his seniors called in to the others in their chase, before he finally gave in to his curiosity. “He’s different—from all the stories. He doesn’t seem like a—“

“Mass murderer, terrorist and a traitor to the country?” Canvassing the area for clues, the eldest of the trio who mostly stayed silent reprimanded with a sour tone. “Don’t be fooled by his sunny personality and joking demeanor. We’re hunting a monster, make sure to remind yourself of that. The moment you show him mercy as a human, you’ll die.”

“We were all fooled.” The leader reminded his partner in a small defeated voice, a hint of pain from betrayal seeping into it. “Let up a little bit, you’re scaring him.”

The eldest scoffed, standing up from kneeling to investigate the railing, he glared at their youngest to indefinite silence. “He should be.”

Giving up, the leader took his communicator out, heaving a breath before reporting in. “This is SHIELD Task Force 1, reporting back to HQ. We’ve lost the target.”

Looking out towards the tumultuous overlapping of strong currents, he knew that despite the impossibility, the man he once considered an ally had survived and would be long gone from their grasps. 

After all, he once was the damn near best agent the world has ever seen. 

And now, he’s their worst enemy.

“I repeat, Stiles Stilinski is in the wind.”


	2. The Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! HAPPY NEW YEARS EVE AND A BELATED CHRISTMAS!!! And thank you so much for all the support you’ve given to this story, this is so exciting!!! Consider this a gift for the New Years and Christmas bc I’m a slow writer and I’m petty like that :p (kidding. I’m honestly trying hard, I swear). Anyways! First official chapter to kick off this particularly wild fic~yay~ Took me quite a while to figure out the outline and how much of the mystery I should keep to Stiles’ fugitive status and how it came to be. But I figured that the whole plot is already riddled with mystery anyways, so I wouldn’t be that mean as to torture you with a double mystery and ridiculous amounts of flashbacks. That’s just too complicated, I’m here to entertain you and not throw your brain into a blender. 
> 
> Plus the angst will be so much more beautiful ;)
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy this long ass first bite into a dangerous meal and leave kudos and comments bc that will be your bill ;) (it makes me happy, ok, there I said it).
> 
> Bon Apetite, mi amores (?).
> 
> Queue the French screaming at me.

This is not a story of honour. Despite their honourable characters and their good alignment, this is not a story of honour. There is no justice, no rewards and no salvation for those who were wronged, as is common with most things in this corrupt world.

All there is to this is learning that fact in the most agonizing, rigorous and tragic way. 

This is a path of twisting fate with a deathly tantalizing partner. 

This is the danse macabre. 

***

In the dead of night, barely standing leaning against a wall covered in year old peeling band posters in a dimly lit alley way, was a man. His eyes spoke of horrors and blood coated him in like a second skin. Tears hung on his long eyelashes, while the raindrops cling to the edge of his upturned nose. Moles scattered around a deathly pale face, ones that must’ve been beautiful in the daylight—but the darkness and the blood made them seem like fractures on his being.

With one look, it was easy to mistake him as a scorned demon. Maybe he was.

Gripping his torso to stop a gushing wound, he dragged himself forward. Because all he can do is move forwards. Even in pain, even drenched in the rain, even with no clear destination in mind—he wouldn’t stop moving, no, couldn’t stop.

Because he promised he would. 

And because if he stopped, he didn’t know if he would ever start moving again. 

If he did, the crushing and haunting sorrow that was biting at every inch of his nerves would devour him whole. 

So he bit the insides of his cheeks until he tasted the tangy-iron warmth of his blood. With a will that he thought he’d lost, he managed to stifle his cries from wrecking the entirety of his body.

He refused to close his eyes, because everytime he did, the images of his misery were burned into the back of his eyelids. 

His mind was a mess. The only thing keeping him going is his instincts, honed through years of experience. Nevertheless, his mind was a bloody mess. It was a storm of never-ending questions, those with answers he’ll probably never know. 

_How the hell did this happen? Why did this happen? Why to them? Why to him? Why?_

It was more than curiosity, it was desperation—for answers that will not come easy. Answers that might not even be the ones he was looking for. He could feel it in his bones, that his was going to be the longest road he would ever walk upon. That it was also going to be the hardest, and the most painful. 

But hell if that will stop him. He will walk down the dark treacherous path that he was thrown into. And he will reach the end. 

Or he’ll die trying. 

***

[ 13 hours earlier ]

***

His descent into hell started on a thursday afternoon. Nothing good ever happens on a thursday. Stiles’ mom died on a thursday, his father got killed on duty on a thursday, and now he too was going to lose everything on a thursday. But he didn’t know that. All he knew at that moment in time was that nothing good ever happens on a thursday. 

“Stiles.” A sweet voice disturbed him from his game, while long elegant fingers grappled the Switch from his hands. 

Stiles’ first reaction was to moan pathetically at the captivity of his game console, but as soon as he saw the stack of paperwork dropped on the table in front of him, he switched to a look of horror and denial. “No.” 

“Yes.” Lydia sat down opposite him with a coffee in one hand and a tablet tucked into her elbow. “Despite your unorthodox ways, you’re still required to fulfill at least document duties as your position as Team Leader.” 

Not many women knew how to control him, but she was always an exception to everything. Lydia Martin. A goddess to most, but a devil to those who knew her. After having known her for most of his life, he knew her better than anyone and could testify to the trauma he’s compiled solely because of her.

Groaning, Stiles smacked his head against the papers before turning side-ways onto his cheek and looking up at Lydia with puppy-eyes. “Why do we need to fill these out anyways—almost all our ops are off the books.” 

“Yes but there’s a reason why they’re ‘off the books’ and yet still receive massive amounts of resources—that’s by creating a fake op to fill into the books.” The woman set her tablet down and glared her leader into submission. “I don’t need to explain this to you, just do it and I’ll take care of the logistics.” 

He was tempted to argue the defeated purpose for naming such officially unsanctioned ops as ‘off the books’, but sighed as he was once again swayed into doing exactly what Lydia wants.

She’s got him wrapped around her pinky and she knows it. 

Evil. That woman is _evil._ Why he cares so deeply for the evil incarnate is beyond him. 

“Where’s Scott and Ally?” Stiles changed his tone into a more amicable one, stealing Lydia’s coffee as a childish revenge. 

Lydia rolled her eyes, scrolling through her StarkPad that monitored world news and statistics from the business and stock industry—truly, the woman was a force of nature. “Where else do you think? Probably somewhere frolicking, humping like rabbits in a backroom closet.” 

“God, Lyds, I didn’t need to know that much.” Stiles acted like he was repulsed, which he technically was but this was normal behaviour for the two lovebirds he’s gotten quite immune to hearing sickeningly cheesy and explicitly rated updates on the married couple. “Still, I can’t believe those two haven’t changed since they met in University—disgustingly in love with each other, stuck like glue even after their marriage. Doesn’t marriage normally diffuse the raging hormonal tendency of wanting to be with each other 24/7? Hence, the alarmingly high rate of divorce.”

The redhead pinned him with an accusatory look, narrowing her eyes whilst pointing her perfectly manicured finger at him. “You’re one to talk. You and Derek are no better than those two.” 

Stiles placed his hand on his heart, offended. “Excuse me, Derek and I know _boundaries_ and we are _professionals,_ we don’t frolic in the workplace.” 

Lydia scoffed, redirecting her attention to her StarkPad as she continues to entertain Stiles’ ridiculous assertion. “Need I remind you the multiple times I have walked into our locker-room and having my eyes burn at the sight of your bodies conjoined at the--” 

“Lydia Martin, we are in _public_ , mind your volume!” Stiles cut her off before he loses his pride in the very public and very open common area of their base, silently looking at the snickering agents around them. 

“Funny you should say that, I’d have thought that you didn’t know what ‘public’ manners imply what with all your exhibitionism kink and voyeur adventures--”

“Jesus, Lydia.” Stiles buried his face in his hands, the tips of his ears blushing a furious shade of red. The increasing laughter and cat-calls from the agents around them was also decidedly not helping. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I did to deserve this but I’m sorry, so please just stop.” 

The genius smirked, winning their banter effortlessly like she always does. She looked at her watch with a passing gaze and then towards the elevators before pinning Stiles with an incomprehensibly smug look. 

Before he could ask, he was lifted off of his seat with two muscled arms before the perpetrator dropped him back down, but this time in the cradle of the man’s thick thighs. Instantly he felt a kiss press onto the side of his temple. 

“Hey. You’re awfully red today.” Derek hummed in amusement, enjoying the sight of his partner blushing like a virgin bridge. 

Lydia looked at him and the last 5 seconds with a pointed look, as if to prove she was right. Stiles sighed, surrendering to his embarrassing fate as he snuggled a hug into Derek’s chest. 

“You’re not helping,” He quietly whined to his lover, to which Derek gave a fond laugh at. 

Before Lydia could tease his head into popping like a cherry tomato, his saviour comes in the form of a fellow agent shouting his name. “Stiles! Fury sent for you!” 

“Duty calls.” 

***

Meetings with the Director was always a secret delight that Stiles enjoyed. Although he would kill himself before he would openly admit it to the overwhelmingly powerful man. None of them would admit it, but they were close—and not only in a boss-subordinate relationship, they just barely qualified into the realms of, dare he say it, friends. 

Which explains (or at least half, because the other half was Stiles’ utter shameless tendencies and disregard for polite niceties) his behaviour, as he waltzed into Nick Fury’s office with no knock, no announcement and no greetings, nothing. Stiles continually hummed a happy tune as he skipped around the office for a while. 

Shameless, yes, that was established already. 

“Stilinski.” Fury pinned him with an unimpressed blank stare, a quiet demand for him to get his ass on a chair left unsaid but still heard. 

“What have you got for us today, old man?” Stiles sat in a chair opposite the Director, kicking his feet up to rest on the desk. 

Seeing his normal antics, Fury simply knocked his foot off his pristine desktop with a file folder. “How many more times do I have to remind you not to sully my desk with your foot before I cut it off completely.” 

The man had a special talent for phrasing questions as threats—never a please or question mark in sight for this one-eyed man, no sir. 

“As many times as it takes for you to realize: that is never happening.” Stiles cheekily smiled without a care for his personal safety, because don’t get him wrong—Fury _will_ cut his leg off, his threats are never just for show. It’s just that he knows he’s indispensable to the agency, thus why the old bastard would never decapitate his limb unless he can find a replacement better than Stiles.

Which—and not to be tooting his own horn—would be damn near impossible to do. _Toot_ -that fucking _-Toot._

Fury slid the inconspicuous brown file folder across the table with his hand still pressing against one side of it. 

Stiles made a move to grab the folder, only to find that it’s not budging under the weight of the Director’s hand. He raised an eyebrow at the man, only to find him staring straight at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Uh, sir?” He tried tapping his fingers on the folder to signal for the other man to let it go. “Sir, I kind of need to _see_ the briefing folder in order for this to _be_ a briefing.” 

Still holding back on his words, Fury closed his eyes and let the file go causing Stiles to slightly jerk back from the loss of tension.

That was the first red flag.

When he opened the file, he knew why Fury was reluctant to hand it to him. “What the hell is this?” 

With no emotion in his voice, or any sort of inclination, Fury replied. “Your next mission.”

“No, this is a blank page.” Stiles flipped through it before slapping the three-page document back on the table.

“It’s not blank.” The Director glared at the paper rudely slammed in front of him, obviously pointing out that indeed the paper wasn’t blank—it was quite the opposite, really: the paper was riddled with huge black redacted rectangular lines almost across entire pages.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles tilted his eyes judgmentally. “Everything’s censored, except for the location, time, description and a sad excuse of a context.” Seeing that Fury wasn’t going to respond, Stiles dropped all formalities—not like he had much in the first place. “Sir, that’s a _blind_ mission.”

“It’s your _next_ mission.” Even with one eye, Fury’s glare held the strength of a thousand. “You’ll be taking this mission in partnership with two level 6 agents and 4 agents of the CIA.” 

Stiles scoffed so hard he thought his lungs was going to come out with it. “First, no one would be stupid enough to take this mission, certainly not me. And second, I refuse to work alongside solo agents, let alone black-tied stiflers with sticks up their asses.” Stiles crossed his arms. “I’m not taking it.” 

“You are, and that’s final.” The man closed his eyes like Stiles was physically giving him a headache—which he technically always does—and deadpanned him with a stronger resolve. “That’s an order.” 

This was getting ridiculous. If Fury thought there was a chance in hell he was taking this mission, he’s gonna poke out his other eyeball, see if he’s all intimidating then. “Since when have I cared for your orders?” 

To be fair, he was right and Fury knows it. Stiles is a part of the rarest group of people who has the capability and nerve of ignoring Fury’s commands and doing whatever he wants, of course within reason. And oh, _boy_ , does Fury know it. “I’m your Director, orders are what I give you.”

Stiles saw right through his bluff, giving him a disappointed eyebrow tilt at that sad attempt of a threat. He saw no end of this discussion because the two of them were as stubborn as they come. So he tried a different approach.

“I don’t get it.” Stiles fixed his posture and lost all of his playful quirk, his eyebrows settling into a focused frown. “You hate being in the blind, even more than I do. You’re so meticulous you have backup plans of your backup plans and entire documents of supplementary info on top of more unnecessary details that you memorize back to front.” 

Stiles felt shivers down his spine from the traumatic experience of reading three huge binders worth of airplane security, signal, code and regulations for a one-hour in-and-out mission—how entirely unnecessary and an absolute waste of time _that_ had been. He shook his head and bore into Fury’s gaze with a concerned look. “You wouldn’t in your right mind take this mission let alone give it to anyone.” 

“Which is why I need you to take it.” Fury gritted those words out as if it pained him. Which, again, weird.

As a matter of fact, this whole exchange was weird. And not at all enjoyable, contrary to his previous sentiment.

When the Director saw that he wasn’t about to reply, he dropped his unfazed cold wall of solidarity that is his default expression and let a little bit of vulnerability slip through. “Stiles, you’re the only one who can do this.”

“Really?” Stiles rolled his eyes, even though his change in behaviour shook him right through his core. “I can think of three other STRIKE teams that are better suited to do this off the top of my head.”

Even though this technically counted as Fury begging—and he never begs, ever—there was still no way in hell he would take this mission. He wasn’t a solo agent, he was a team leader. He has the responsibility of four lives on his shoulders. They may be the famous DELTA STRIKE team, the most formidable and effective STRIKE team with the highest success rate—but they were still human, susceptible to death of any kind. 

So, no, Fury can get down on his knees and offer him a million riches and he still wouldn’t take this mission. Nothing can break that—

“But you’re the only one I trust.”

—resolve. _Well, fuck_. That wasn’t fair. 

Fury was never one to show any sort of emotions. Not only was all of this extremely freaky, weird and unprecedented—Stiles couldn’t deny the warmth spreading over the pit of his stomach, ticklish and radiant. 

Someday he’s going to stop listening and bending to this sneaky man’s will, but that day is unfortunately not today. 

Sighing, Stiles took the file back from the desk, flipping it shut and standing up from his seat. “I don’t like this.” He grumbled before leaving. 

Before he could shut the door on his way back, Fury called his name so suddenly, almost as if it slipped after a great force of holding it back.

“Stiles.”

He turned back with a confused frown, looking at the ever so blank furious wall of a man. 

“Good Luck.”

Considering he never said that before, Stiles’ stomach backflipped. _How reassuring._

***

From the beginning, everything was odd. You would think that given what they do they would be used to odd situations, but that wasn’t the case. They were a special STRIKE team in the way that they could handle all kinds of situations thrown at them, but they would never go into a mission blind. That’s just idiotic. Stiles would’ve never taken a mission like that, and until recently he thought Fury wouldn’t have given him a mission like that either. 

But life’s a bitch like that—you never really know anything, do you. 

That night as he geared up he had the unmistakable feeling of dread pooling in his guts. There were only three occasions where he had felt dread like that before and each time had nearly cost him his life. Each time he had an inkling of what was causing his stomach to drop, but this time he’s completely in the dark.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Stiles felt a pair of huge warm hands grounding him, massaging the kinks in his neck as they slowly slithered down his back and across his waist to hold him tight.

He tilted his head back to drown in the pools of green and brown swirling in Derek’s eyes, smiling softly as he felt it calming him down. “Nothing. Nothing, I’m probably just overthinking it.” 

“And?” Derek prodded further as he helped Stiles fasten his under-arm holster, simultaneously trapping him in his close embrace. 

Derek had always thought that Stiles’ ‘overthinking’ was a necessary thought process, it wasn’t something that was unneeded and something to be shrugged off so casually. To him, Stiles’ paranoid-like tendencies was a valued asset.

That’s just one of the many reasons why he’s madly in love with the brunette. 

“I honestly don’t know. Something’s wrong, Derek. I can feel it.” He snuggled his face further into his lover’s neck, breathing that comforting scent in. “I don’t know how I know but, it scares me.“

Derek hummed, rubbing Stiles’ arms in a comforting gesture whilst peppering his forehead with kisses. “We’ll be fine, like we always are.”

Derek had the special talent of calming down the constant buzzing behind Stiles’ mind, drowning it out into a soft hum, reassuring every one of his fears with a steady disposition of his presence. But this time, his words had no effect. 

That was how he knew something was terribly wrong. 

“Mom, Dad, what did we talk about touching in the locker-room.” Scott rolled his eyes, his tone exaggeratedly mocking them. “We don’t need another sibling.” 

Allison’s laugh rang like a sweet melody, dispersing Stiles’ sour brooding mood. “As much as I’d love a little brother, you have to wait, Stiles.” 

Scott shared a small kid-like giggle with the love of his life, as if they were kept in a secret world of their own. 

Lydia looked at them with fond exasperation, berating them. “There are faster ways to kill me if that’s what you’re trying to do from all this cheesy ridiculousness. Get your ass off each other and let’s go already, we have to meet up with the twigs from CIA.”

“Don’t remind me.” Scott grumbled, reaching for Allison and hugging her for comfort. “The last time I had to deal with those butt-faces I got stuck in a Libyan prison for a week.”

Stiles winced, remembering their chaotic jail-break to rescue Scott (ironic how breaking people out of jail, who was there for breaking the law, needed a lot more law breaking than what had initially put them into jail). “To be fair, that was partially your fault.”

“How was I supposed to know they can’t work a standard revolver and shotgun? That’s a prerequisite for being a field agent!” Groaning, he held his wife a little tighter, half out of frustration and the other half because he loved the way she felt in his hands. 

“Here, in SHIELD, yes.” Stiles laughed at Scott’s writhing, behind him Derek was rolling his eyes at his mischief. “Not sure what they do in other agencies—maybe an IQ test or an open-call audition, hell if I know.”

Lydia smacked all of them behind their heads with her tablet, walking out regally like the Queen she was. “Knock it off. I’ll meet you down in 5.” 

Stiles faked a pained cry at her actions, immediately looking at Derek with a teary expression. The older man huffed in fond exasperation and held his lover’s dramatic face in his hands before pulling him close and kissing him on his head, like a soft prayer or medicine. 

Whatever this feeling was, whatever it was warning him of—it doesn’t matter. He’ll protect his family. No matter what.

***

The mission that brought about the downfall of his future wasn’t a particularly dangerous one—it was quite a deceptively simple extraction. Someone had stolen something and they were tasked to retrieve it safely and discreetly. They had no real idea what they were supposed to take back—the only description they’ve got is a case. A highly equipped case. 

Encasing what? Fuck knows. 

The child’s rendition of a report they had as a mission file said barely anything about the object they had to retrieve or the case. Just that the case was password locked and biometric scan restricted, and that the object was a document of some sort that could never be released into public. National security at stake or some bullshit reason like that.

Stiles was sure as hell curious and wary of it. He looked to his right, the four CIA agents accompanying them chatting to each other in hushed voices. To his left was Agent Ward and Ryder, the level 6 agents joining them on this mission. It didn’t really help that he hated Ward’s guts with an infinite passion. Something about that guy just creeps him out.

_I don’t like this. Not a single bit._ Stiles bit his lips as he turned his comms on. “Lyds, can you hear me?”

They were staked out at a warehouse—an intel told them an exchange of the stolen item would be made in about an hour and they’re scouting the place in advance. 

_“Loud and clear. Where are you?”_

Stiles looked around and sighed in a whisper. “Stuck with two dumbs and four dumbers.” Scott snickered behind him. “We’re stationing ourselves behind a few crates and storage boxes. You?”

_“Opposite building, 3rd floor, we’ve got a clear view into the warehouse’s wall windows.”_ There was clicking sounds over the earpiece, indicating the woman was setting her sniper into place. 

“Is that Martin?” 

Stiles snapped his head up to the sound of Agent Grant Ward’s voice. “Yeah, she found a location.” 

“Argent’s with her right? Tell her to come here, I’ll take her post.” The slick man drew his gun and left to do as he announced. This was exactly why he hated the man—he was overly commanding with no regards of anyone else’s respect, and with no right to. 

But somehow he always seemed to get everything he wanted. Allison came to them with an annoyed tick at her eyebrow, which was promptly soothed by her husband. 

That feeling gnawing at his nerves stewed and grew by the second as he watched his team split up even further. Derek and Allison were now stationed on the back side of the warehouse with three CIA agents, whilst he and Scott were joined by one CIA operative and Agent Ryder at the forefront. 

Everytime he looked down at his watch, it was as if his stomach was going to explode. Like a voice was telling him, at the back of his mind, that it was any second now. Any second now—and what? He didn’t know what it was counting down to.

“Movement spotted, a truck pulling in with one driver, front entry, your side Stiles.” Lydia reported into his ear. “Another car at 6’oclock, near Derek, three men.” 

“Copy that.” 

He was ready for the ball to drop—for an accident to happen or for all hell to break loose. But surprisingly, it didn’t. Well, that would be a generous statement, given that now he was in the midst of a shoot-out to secure the case. They had waited until both parties got out of their vehicles and Stiles wanted to wait even further to listen in on the deal, to get any clue whatsoever. But hot-headed Ward gave an attack command, and by then the shoot-out had already begun. 

Stiles doesn’t like the guy, sure, but he wasn’t about to leave him without back-up in a gunfight. He didn’t want an agent to die under his watch, even if it was the slimy Grant Ward. 

Maybe his instincts were wrong? It doesn’t seem like they would fail—given that they outnumbered their enemies. 

Shaking his head, Stiles hopped onto the semi-trailer attached to the truck. When he saw the case, he closed the door behind him. He blinked a few times, feeling as if he was in a prank. 

The object of their mission was placed on a pedestal-like structure.

Stiles grabbed the suitcase with extreme caution. It was absurd. Half of him was expecting some Indiana-Jones like sequence to roll, but nothing happened other than the ring of gunshots outside of the semi-trailer. 

This was too easy, wasn’t it? 

With the suitcase safely in his hands, he glanced over his shoulder to hear that everyone was preoccupied with fighting off the guards. Stiles chewed his lips, knowing what he was about to do was breaking about 100 protocols and then some—but his instincts told him to do it anyways. 

And if there’s something Stiles trusts unconditionally in this world, other than his team, it’s his instincts. 

Plus, it’s not like he was such a stickler for rules, ever. 

So this was more of an expected behaviour. Look, if they didn’t want Stiles to find out about whatever this mysterious document he was supposed to receive was, they shouldn’t have put him on the case. 

Doing what he does, and having to listen to Lydia rant about her extensive knowledge on technology—Stiles has a general idea about what something does just by the outlook and built of the item, more than your average person. 

This case. Well, this case was a bit of an overkill, is what it is. On top of the code and bio-scan security, this case was equipped to handle shock-waves and bio- and radio-contamination by the built of it. If it’s only protecting a measly document, no matter how important it may be, it was still just a paper document. Then, why the extra measures?

Unless, it’s not a document.

Making up his mind, he pulled out a gadget designed by Lydia to override code and bio-scan security tech. He’d brought it just as a precaution. And a damn good precaution it was, because as soon as Stiles unlocked the case, he was right about everything. 

Inside was no document, but something more troubling lay in its place. 

His gut churned. _He hates being right._

Stiles made a split second decision—and that, surprisingly, ended up being his only saving grace.

***

The shoot-out was long over and done when Stiles got out of the semi-trailer, waving the case to his team. “Got it.”

He made a move to join his team, when one of the CIA agents blocked his way with his hand outstretched. “Good work. We’ll take it from here.” 

Stiles raised his eyebrows as the agent gestured for the case. “No, I think I got it. Thanks for the concern.” 

Everyone could feel the tension rising, without knowing why, as the agent stood his ground and openly glared. “Give me the case, Agent Stilinski.”

“You may be assigned to it, but this is still my op.” Stiles put his foot down on authority, shielding the case. “The case stays with me—if you’ve got an objection, then feel free to try and take it.”

He wasn’t expecting the man to actually try—well, he did just goad him—but he was fast to dodge. Derek pinned the agent down, as Scott and Allison raised their weapons at the remaining CIA operatives. 

_So this was what his gut feeling was warning him about_ , Stiles sighed in relief. They were assigned a team of moles. This wasn’t as bad of a predicament he thought it’d be, now that he’s got the case and everything was—

A gunshot rang through his thoughts and a pained shout followed straight after. His mind snapped to the source of the shout, Scott. He was clutching his right shoulder, blood staining his uniform. Then he looked to the source of the attack. 

Agent Ryder. 

_They weren’t working alone_. Shit. 

Allison was about to kill the agent for hurting her husband but stopped at the warning of another bullet shot into the ceiling. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Agent Ward walked in with Lydia in his capture. The woman had a head wound and ropes binding her hands, her face was a picture of fury. He scoffed at her attempts, head signalling at the CIA agents on the ground. “Let them go.”

“Lydia!” Derek shouted, his gun aimed at their new enemy. “Let her go, Ward.” 

The agent replied to the hostility by pressing his own gun against Lydia’s head. “Sure, after Stilinski hands over the case.” 

Lydia snarled at her captor, unflinching against the threat on her life. “Stiles, I swear, if you give him the case I will castrate you.”

Everyone stood still on their team, shocked at the unprecedented trouble. Stiles cursed every god he could think of. 

“I always knew you were a slimy bastard. Especially with that hair, how could you not be?” Running out of ideas, one without risking Lydia’s life and prolonging Scott’s treatment, Stiles bit his lips but begrudgingly handed the case over. 

Ward pushed Lydia from his grasps into Stiles’ empty arms, the woman slapping him as hard as she can. Well, that was as affectionate of a ‘thankyou’ he’s going to get from her. 

“You idiot.” She murmured into his arms. 

Granted, they’ve got Lydia back, but they weren’t out of the woods just yet. On the contrary, they were in more danger than before. Because before, they had leverage. And now, they had nothing. 

No amount of poker faces could hide that fact, and their anxiety. 

Agent Ward chuckled. “Oh, wow. You all look so pathetic right now, I can’t. Let’s get this over with.” 

Once again they were met at gunpoint, all 6 of them had a target—Stiles having Ward’s and Ryder’s pointed at his head. It was an honour, really.

Still, he wasn’t convinced they had met their fate, since he knew they wouldn’t pull the trigger. For one very simple reason: they wouldn’t dare to. 

“Well, tough luck, jackass, you got partnered with the wrong team. Don’t you know who we are?” Stiles forced a show of unwavering ying confidence, a very natural and cocky one. “We’re infamous in this world. If we were taken out, no one in their right mind would believe it was an accident.” 

The smirk that split the senior agent’s smile was one that Stiles wasn’t expecting. Even less, he didn’t expect Ward—that crazy bastard—would turn his gun to the CIA Agents and shoot all four of them point blank.

Stiles noted that those agents were as shocked as he was, as their eyes widened minutely in fear and surprise before they fell in a heap of blood.

“What—the fuck.” Scott grunted, slowly feeling the impact of blood loss as he kneeled on the ground. 

Weren’t they working together? _What the hell was going on?!_ Stiles’ mind spun, and he could see Derek itching to get closer to him without setting of a trigger-happy reaction from the sick maniac.

Ryder rolled his eyes and huffed a loud breath. “God, they’re so stuck up, it was painful watching them think they have the upper hand.”

“Do you seriously think you can hide this from HQ?” Stiles shouted in outrage. “They won’t stop until they hunt you down.” 

Ward laughed at his antics, making a cooing noise. “Oh no. He’s so confused.” He clicked his tongue. “But what to do? I think they’d be far too busy hunting _you_ down.” 

Stiles was about to spit a backfiring question until he took a second look at the gun in Ward’s hand. It was _his_ gun. Not his usual gun because he had that one in his hands, but it was his back-up SHIELD issued gun that he rarely used. His brain was reeling because that shouldn’t be possible—his back-up gun had always been stored securely inside the weapons facility inside of SHIELD. 

—And that’s when everything started falling into place. 

These guys weren’t worried about the repercussions at all. Because they had someone on the inside. They planned it all out. They were painting this as a betrayal. Not from them, but from Stiles. 

That’s not even the worst part. The realization dawned on him like a final calling, the dread that was slowly boiling in the pit of his stomach erupted in an overwhelming force. 

These people are actually going to kill them. _All_ of them. 

As soon as everything became crystal clear, Stiles made a move to aim his gun and shout a retreating order to his team but it was all too late. 

The first gunshot fired right into Scott’s chest, taking advantage of the fact that he’s immobilized on the ground. The horrid scream of pain and anguish that followed shortly after ripped itself from Allison’s lips—a noise that Stiles would never be able to erase from his memory. 

He retaliated with a flurry of bullets of his own, providing cover as he saw Derek try and wrench Allison’s protective stance over Scott’s lifeless body. Somewhere beside him, he could hear Lydia’s tattle-tale rounds of her revolver bullets fly with rage and aimed precision. 

Stiles knew that his team was the best of the best when it comes to abilities and success-rate. He trusts his team with his life. They’ve managed to escape the impossible, danced an ultimate tango with Death and played pranks knocking on his door, but each time they would come out unscathed. Yet still, that gut-quenching fear and dread kept sending chills down his spine. 

Eventually, like most things, luck runs out and everything must come to an end. 

Even with Derek holding her back, Allison still managed to slip away and rush back to Scott’s body, holding him in her arms as rivers stained her cheeks. She was saying something, something illegible to his ears, to Scott. And she was smiling through her pain. 

Scott and Allison were the kind of couple that just made sense. They had a kind of love that movies were written for and songs were serenading of. Watching them was like watching true love unfold right before your eyes. It wasn’t perfect—but it was as close as it can get. 

They were inseparable. They couldn’t live without each other. 

So it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when Allison sat there, in the middle of the crossfire, holding Scott tightly as she accepted her fate and took a bullet to her skull. 

Everything happened so fast. Lightning fast, as muzzle flashes blinded him one after another, bullets whizzing through so close he could hear it, grazing his cheek with a straight cut.

A bullet struck him on his midriff, choking a gasp out of him. Stiles’ eyes burned with the explosion of his tear ducts—in pain, in sadness, in anger, everything blended into one. 

Derek gathered the man into his arms and started dragging him away to safety. They’ve managed to kill all four of the CIA agents and heavily injured Ryder. 

Lydia shouted at him, her face a mess of tears and angry lines. “Derek, take Stiles and go!” 

“No! Lydia!” Stiles struggled in Derek’s arms, seeing Ward run behind her and stabbed her straight through her stomach. 

He heard Derek whimper behind bim but it didn’t take away from his strength in pulling the younger man away.

“Derek! Let me go!” Stiles ignored the pain in his midriff as he thrashed around whilst being bodily dragged out of the warehouse. He saw the woman fighting with her last breath, managing to shoot two bullets into Ward’s right leg. “Lydia!”

The sight of Lydia shouting his name to go whilst crumpled on the floor in a pool of her blood was the last thing he saw before Derek hauled him out completely. 

***

Stiles could hear his heart beating, loudly, clearly. Despite all the gunshots and rifle rounds firing behind him, hitting the pavement, clashing againsts lampposts, shattering bulbs—the loudest and clearest thing he heard was his own heartbeat. 

There was another team stationed outside as Stiles and Derek made their escape on a stolen motorbike. They prepared a back-up cavalry, just in case the two teams inside failed. 

They must really want all of them dead. 

Tears were streaming down his face, mixing in with the blood and sweat. He could feel it sting on the cut against his cheek and his split lip. He felt the pain of his ruptured muscles and insides as it moved against the bullet embedded deep in one of his pecs. 

But all he could focus on was the flashes of screams and blood-splattered images of Scott, Lydia, Allison, Scott, Lydia, Allison, SCOTT, LYDIA, ALLI—

“Stiles!” Derek shouted behind him, eyes caught in the headlights of the oncoming vehicle. Relying on his instincts, Stiles braked as he slammed his foot on the ground, ignoring the drag of pavement on his boots and forced his bike to a 180 rapid turn with his foot as a pivot before driving full speed at a splitting road. 

Derek kept his hold on Stiles’ waist as his body was inclined backwards, gun in one hand, firing back at the men chasing them down.

What more could the world take from him? Not only was the rug was pulled under him, he was also sinking into the ground in an unforgiving manner. 

“Stiles, promise me. You’ll keep going. Survive, for me, please.” Derek begged, his voice unnaturally scared in its wavering. “You have to.” 

He was confused, but he felt the desperation in his begging and thus found it hard to do anything but exactly what he asked of him. “On my soul, I swear I won’t let their deaths be unanswered.” Stiles revved the bike faster, taking a hard right turn on the intersection. “We’ll find whoever did this, and I will kill them.” 

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Derek was getting heavier on his back.

“Yeah.” Came the content reply, so glaringly soft and hushed. “I’m so glad it’s you. Thank God, it’s you.” 

For what felt like ages, which in reality was just a few seconds, Derek kept murmuring those words. Mouthing it behind his ears, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, kissing his nape. In contrast to the chaos following behind them, the reckless style of his driving and dodging the rain of bullets, the act was soft and gentle and precarious. Fragile. 

And so, so heartbreaking. 

But fate willed his heart had not break enough, just yet.

“I’m sorry.” 

Stiles bit the inside of his cheeks as he swerved to avoid a near hit on the tire, his hands revving the motorcycle to go even faster under the weight of two people.

“Don’t say that, Der.” Stiles gurgled as he tried to choke back a cry, adrenaline rushing in his veins. 

It was then that his mind realized that Derek had stopped shooting at their chaser. They were out of bullets. 

_Fuck_.

But that wasn’t all.

“I’m so sorry you have to do it alone.” Derek cried against his neck.

Stiles blinked. “What?”

With the most tender kiss, and the softest of hug, Derek murmured into his ear, three words he’s said a million times before but not with the weight that this one held—not with the scar it left deep within Stiles’ heart.

He felt the grip across his stomach weaken. He felt as the hands slid away across his sides, the fingers betraying the action as they tried to hold on to little cusps of fabric. 

Before Stiles could process what was going on, he looked down and saw blood prints on his uniform, not from his own blood but from Derek’s. 

His brain crashed, his heart lurched and his back felt free from the warmth—as Derek slipped away from the bike. 

“DEREK!” 

Stiles couldn’t even see his body crash against the harsh gravel pavement, his eyes only momentarily registering the movement before he had to turn his head back to the road when a loud blaring truck honk jostled him.

He swerved, barely avoiding the truck speeding down the lane, and with a broken heart and an overwhelming strength, he drove on and kept going.

He promised. 

He promised. 

Because he promised he would.


	3. For He Who Kills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my awesome readers, THANKYOU SO SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT AND KUDOS AND COMMENTS, I'M SO HAPPPYYY THAT YOU'RE ENJOYING THIS <3 So, this took a lot longer than expected, despite having plot outline, I'm a bumbling mess of words, trying desperately to capture specific emotions, details, etc and thus the slow updates. I know, I can't help it but I'll try to update faster next time!!!! 
> 
> But on the bright side, every chapter I write is like an average of 6,000-8,000 words? (In my other fic, I wrote a 25,000 word chapter, yes, I'm aware that could be a whole fic on its own, but what can I do, the plot begs it). So the word count of this fic is gonna rake up big pretty fast. 
> 
> Also, update schedule will hopefully be once every two weeks? Or once every week and a half? (And if I'm feeling extremely productive then once in a week). Basically, it's a flimsy schedule so pro-tip, just click the subscribe button to any story and AO3 will send you an email whenever an update pops up! V convenient. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you like this chapter and get excited for the next one boiiiiiiiisss <3
> 
> PS. I didn't specify where in the timeline the prologue (1st chapter) fits in, and I'm not going to, bc that's more for the thrill ;)

Clint Barton felt like he was living a nightmare. He couldn’t believe anything anyone was saying and, more importantly, he didn’t want to. 

Because how? How in the world was he supposed to? How is this even possible? How—

His thoughts were interrupted as he violently crashed against another agent whilst running at full speed, two bodies flung back from the force. The archer groaned in pain as he felt around his head, sitting up from hitting the ground. 

“I’m sorry.” He stood, offering a hand to the poor agent that was in his way. Before the agent could thank him or reprimand him, Clint ran straight off after helping him up.

Instincts took his feet to an even faster speed, going down the familiar hallway before it opened up into a large command centre. 

His hawk-vision spotted Director Fury and Agent Hill at the centre of the organized chaos of real-time updates, coordination of teams and lists of commands. 

If the Director noticed his presence—which he definitely did because that man is literally omniscient—he didn’t make any move to acknowledge it. And that was enough to send Clint’s nerve into overdrive. 

“Sir.” He called out, breath uneven from his sprint. 

This time for sure, Fury was ignoring him, opting to command Hill to deploy teams to set up checkpoints. 

“Sir.” Clint tried again, but Fury simply shifted away—literally turning a blind eye to the archer. 

He could clearly hear the moment his patience snapped, as he whipped forwards and imposed himself unto the Director’s vision.

“Sir!” There was a hopeful glint in his eyes, one that Fury refused to look straight at. “Is it true?”

Sighing, the one-eyed man glared at his subordinate’s insolence. “What does it look like I’m doing if it isn’t true?”

Certainly, the command centre was in a riot. Agents in panic and distress because of the utter disbelief they had as they handled this ridiculous and painful situation. They didn’t know how to feel. If these agents, who were only colleagues in relation to their new enemy, didn’t know how to react—then how was Clint supposed to?

After all, he was one of his closest friends. 

Family, if he dared say.

“There has to be a mistake.” The skilled marksman shook his head, trying his best to turn this whole thing into a joke. “He wouldn’t do that. You  _ know _ he wouldn’t do that.”

Agent Maria Hill couldn’t bare to look at his slow descent into madness, steeling her nerves to scold the truth into him. “There’s no mistaking the bodies we received—his entire team and the agents in partnership with them are all dead. And the two that did survive are heavily injured—Agent Ryder’s in surgery, fighting for his life. Agent Ward is barely conscious.”

The two commanders could see the moment when Clint’s hope flickered. His face blanched and his eyes wide with grief, but hope is a fickle thing in which it lives on even with nothing to hold on to. 

“But there’s no proof he did it. Just because he’s missing, it doesn’t mean anything. He could be captured by the enemy—“ 

“Their targets were found dead along with our team.” Hill shut down his hypothesis before it could go anywhere. 

Clint swallowed a bile in his throat. “Still, that doesn’t mean Stiles betrayed us!”

As if the world was begging to differ, one agent came barreling straight to them with a report in his hands. “Ballistics just came through. The bullets matched to a gun in our system—it’s Agent Stilinski’s, Sir.”

There was a moment of silence in the bustling command centre. A heavy silence that rang loudly in everyone’s ears, one filled with shock, disappointment and sadness. An emotion built up in Clint’s stomach and he didn’t want to put a label on it. But something else stewed in that complicated pile, one that he could identify very clearly—doubt.

Fury gave one heavy sigh before clapping his hands to grab everyone’s attention. “That’s all the proof we need.” He turned back to overlooking the command centre, effectively shutting down the rest of Clint’s debate. “Wipe that shock off your faces and get back to work. I want Stiles Stilinski found.”

***

Steve Rogers was dragged out of his usual routine of training with a frantic agent informing him to urgently report to the Director’s office. Seeing as he was the unofficial director of the Avenger’s Initiative, Steve rarely had any business to do with the official operations of SHIELD. Initially, Coulson made a whole deal about Avengers being a separate organization completely independent from SHIELD, but Fury refused to accept that, so this was the compromise. 

By that summoning order alone, he got a bad feeling. It got worse as he saw Natasha, waiting for him by the double doors. 

“What’s this about?”

The assassin shrugged, signalling her lack of knowledge. Both of them swiftly entered the room, finding Clint stewing quietly in the corner.

“Rogers. Romanoff.” Nick Fury greeted them behind his desk, clad in his usual leather coat and menacing with his eyepatch glare.

“Fury.” Steve nodded back, worriedly glancing to their miserable archer. 

Before he could inquire about anything, Fury pulled out a thick folder from his drawer and tossed it on the table. Steve caught the file before it could slip, gripped it in his hands. 

“Your next mission.” Fury explained. “I’m tasking you personally to deal with this, and Natasha as your second. All resources are open to you, but you have to report directly to me.” He waved his hands as a gesture of shirking off details. “Your responsibilities as head of the Avengers Initiative and its ongoing operations can be handled by Falcon while you’re on this case, indefinitely.”

The frown that pulled his eyebrows down appeared instantly. This was absurd. Steve was ready to complain but he wasn’t one to voice out indignantly, so he opened the case file.

The words ripped out from his mouth faster than a bullet. “What?”

Natasha saw the disbelief painted across America’s national treasure, and couldn’t help but peek over his shoulder to see their new target. The instant she saw the name and the familiar face in the profile, her eyes went wide and snapped towards Clint.

Her best friend failed to meet her gaze and that said enough. 

“Sir, what is this?” Steve shook the shock out of his system. He didn’t know Stiles personally, only saw him in casual passing, but he knew Clint was fond of the boy and Natasha was friends with him. 

“He’s gone rogue, killed his entire team and took off with a case keeping something you don’t need to know about. All that matters is that he’s a fugitive and a threat to national security. Do not mistake him as a fellow Agent.” Despite having a way with words, Fury’s wording was slick and clean-cut—straight to the point.

Steve took a moment to process what he heard, then another to look at his teammate growling softly in his nook, and then turned back to the Director. All he could do was give the superior a stiff nod. 

When it looked like Fury no longer had anything to say, Steve retreated with Natasha following in his steps. Clint begrudgingly went with them. They reached the door before the man spoke up, this time to a silent recipient.

“Agent Barton.” 

Clint scowled at the calling and forced out a reply. “Sir.”

Fury eyed him for a second before glaring the agent into silent submission. “If you can’t keep your emotions in check, I’m pulling you out of the mission—do you understand?”

Steve could tell by the tension in his muscles that Clint was taking everything he had in him to not scream at the stoic one-eyed man. 

“Do you  _ understand. _ ” The Director of SHIELD emphasized his words with a strong suppressing tone, bubbling in silent anger. 

That’s when Steve realized, Stiles Stilinski was somewhat like Fury’s personal apprentice—he picked him up, trained him and watched his prodigy flourished under him. There was no way this wouldn’t affect the otherwise emotionless unaffected man.

“I’ll find the truth, sir.” Clint stated his promise with a mocking bow, before storming out with a new resolve.

This was going to be excruciating, both to execute and to watch. Steve sighed, resigning himself to the unavoidable train wreck.

***

Loss was a concept that Stiles was overly familiar with. He’d gone through it multiple times; when his mother died of a sickness, when his father died on duty, when Derek’s family perished in a fire, there were too many to count at this point. 

Death was a friend he seeked in his darkest hour, and one he made contracts with to deal onto other people. When he got recruited to SHIELD in his second year of MIT, his professor warned him of the life he was jumping into. 

_ You’re going to suffer, _ he said.  _ You’re diving in a world of torment, as both the exactor and the victim. _ He was awfully blind, stupidly naive, and drunk on the adrenaline of youth. He didn’t understand what his professor meant, and passed it off as words to scare him from leading an adventurous life. A meaningful life. 

Or so he thought.

And now his professor’s last word to him rang in his head like the toll of a bell, ringing a final warning: 

_ For he who kills, will be repaid in a pain far worse than death.  _

It seemed like a simple enough lesson. Stiles thought he knew the consequences and the dangers of what he’s doing. But never like this.

But now he felt the weight of that statement finally settling in.

Because he felt it. A pain worse than anything, worse than death. A pain that words can’t even begin to describe, that sounds can’t even begin to convey, no matter how wretched or how loud and broken he screamed. Nothing could take away from that rabid spreading hollow darkness, eating at him, ravaging him from inside out. 

It was like crying rivers of blood from your eyes, like breathing with a pierced lung, like being wholly awake whilst your heart was being torn out of your ribcage—slowly, painfully, excruciatingly. Alike, but so, so much worse. 

Stiles crashed into his apartment, taking refuge from the harrowing cold soaking into his bones from the rain. He doesn’t even bother locking the doors behind him because he knew he was never going to come back here. He knew he didn’t have much time. In less than 10 minutes, maybe 15 if he was lucky, agents were going to swarm this place and tear it inside out for clues, for evidence, for anything and everything that will incriminate him. 

For a second, Stiles saw hope—his apartment was clean of any evidence, since he was innocent. But that didn’t matter. Since  _ they _ had people on the inside, they could just plant false evidence. 

He took a minute to breathe. But everywhere he looked he was reminded of his loss. Since this was his home, the home he built with the man he thought he was going to be with for the rest of his life. With the man he loved with every breath in his soul. 

With the man who was brutally ripped from his life. 

He was everywhere.  _ They _ were everywhere. Remnants, memories, all the little things. Scott’s favourite pillow on their couch, his games scattered near the TV for their competitive video-gaming tournaments. Lydia’s manicure sets and magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table. Allison’s many potted plants and decorations that she forcefully hanged and placed in their living room “as a gift”. 

And the photographs. Hanged, framed, in magnets, on walls, on tables and multiple albums. 

And Derek. 

_ Derek. _

Stiles felt the longing like a punch in his gut. A sob tore out of his lips and he bit the insides of his cheeks to stop from breaking down completely. 

He felt his knees hit the ground and his body crumpled over, as he soundless scream ripped from his throat. He hated this. He hated everything. He hated the scent of his home enveloping him, he hated the pictures, he hated the memories, he hated the feeling of the rug he and Derek had a civil war from choosing, he hated the muted green color of the walls they painted after a hefty debate, he hated his  _ home _ . 

Because it reminded him of something he lost, something he will never have. A taste of false heaven. A broken paradise.

It felt like the end.

But he wasn’t done. He can’t be done. For everything he’s lost, he’s going to make sure  _ everyone _ felt the pain he’s feeling. 

A flood of blood overwhelmed his taste buds as he realized he bit his cheeks too hard, reopening the wound he bit previously. And that was the wake-up call he needed. 

Stiles got to work. He stood up and took the medical kit they stored in the cabinets. Leaning against the counter of the kitchen island, he dumped all the contents of the kit on the table. He lifted his shirt and scrunched it up into his mouth—for access and something to bite down to for the pain.

Grabbing the disinfectant, Stiles haphazardly poured it all over his midriff, his teeth clenching down on the fabric of his shirt as he fought through the stinging pain. He ditched the bottle for a pair of tweezers and took a deep breath before he dug into the wound. 

“Fucking hell!” He cursed, as he twisted the tweezers in his flesh, trying to find the bullet lodged in there somewhere. 

_ Jesus,  _ if he was going to get shot, the least he wanted was for the shooter to be skilled enough for the bullet to actually go through and save him the trouble of this unnecessary butchering. 

A twist and two turns later, he got the bullet out. He made no waste in bandaging it and swallowing a handful of pain meds to keep himself going. 

He knows it’s unhealthy but fuck if it is. As the fast-acting pain meds kicked into his system, he could feel the instant relief of not only his physical pain, but his mental state. It numbed it down, not so much that he didn’t feel like he wanted to tear his brain out to stop his loss from destroying him anymore, but enough so that he had strength to keep himself in check. 

If there was anything you learn in training as field and specialist agents, it was to compartmentalize like a fucking cabinet. 

And Stiles? Right now he was the sturdiest fireproof triple locked steel cabinet to ever cabinet. 

There was a lot of precautions that came with their job, especially with a reputation as infamous as the Delta STRIKE Team. Stiles, with his position as a leader, had a fail-safe plan in case something went wrong. He had long set up a protocol in case he needed to go off-grid and hide, or in this case, run. But that was for a later time. 

He had other immediate plans hidden in places more accessible, one of which is obviously in his own home. Stiles moved the pictures hanging on the walls with no caution, before he grabbed the sturdy metal floor lamp and braced. With one hard swing, he smashed the wall. 

Getting rid of the debris, small vacant space he had hollowed out behind the wall appeared in full view. Inside was a duffel bag. Stiles quickly checked the duffel bag to see everything was in place: two fake passports, three unactivated cell phones, a couple of USB drives, a small leatherbound notebook, $500,000 in bundles of untraceable hundred dollar bills, and a standard Glock 17 with loaded ammunition and a few 15-round magazines.

Stiles quickly changed out of his bloodied and ruined combat uniform, ditching it for a T-shirt, hooded windbreaker jacket and pants. He grabbed the Glock, sliding it into his hidden belt-carry and slid two magazines into his back pocket.

Taking the pile of his battered clothing, he pulled an object out of one of the pockets, staring at it intently. He held it in his hand with extreme caution, like it was going to explode on him. 

Maybe it will who knows? He placed the object inside his duffel bag before zipping it up and slinging it onto his shoulder. Stiles hasn’t got the first clue as to what this  _ thing _ does, but he knew in his gut that this was the thing that was going to decide his fate in this war he’s about to enter. 

His trump card. 

Grabbing a baseball cap off the coat rack, he placed it on his head and tucked the tip down. Reaching towards the door, he forced himself not to look back—to not remember every single detail of his home he was leaving behind—and left. 

***

Grant Ward stood with a pained expression, a hidden hint of smugness shining in his eyes. When he was first roped into the mission, he thought it wouldn’t be that hard. Granted it was the famous Delta team, but they had the element of surprise. Thus, he  _ definitely _ did not expect it to be the shitshow catastrophe they barely pulled off. 

He also didn’t expect to be so badly injured, by a woman at that.  _ Lydia Martin _ . The agent grit his teeth as he spat at her name, taking great pleasure at being her killer. 

That woman was too stuck up, too arrogant, thinking the world was under her fingers. She was high up on Ward’s death list. 

But the first, and only throne, of that list belonged to the cockroach by the name of Stiles fucking Stilinski. The mere thought of him boils his blood. 

At first, he was overjoyed at being assigned to the mission, thinking he could finally exact his justice onto that arrogant son of a bitch. To think that the vermin would actually survive. 

The door opened, stopping his thoughts from rambling on, and in walks Captain America, Blackwidow and Hawkeye. Ward instantly gathered himself, putting on his mask seamlessly.

“Agent Ward.” Steve greeted the injured soldier. 

“Captain.” Ward politely greeted back with a slight nod. 

They were in the locker room, where Agent Ward was sorting his things after getting treated. Steve offered for the agent to sit seeing that he was injured. 

“You okay to answer some questions?” Steve asked him once he was seated down.

Grant Ward wasted no time to nod, purposefully hesitating and putting on an act. He thought he would earn some brownie points if he acted like he was betrayed by a comrade. 

Sympathy was a weapon easily manipulated. 

Steve took a seat on the bench opposite of the agent, with Natasha behind him and Clint leaning against a farther locker. There was something about the way Clint Barton was looking at him that made his nerves stand on end. 

“Tell us what happened.” Steve jumped right into it. 

Agent Ward was a master manipulator, if anything. A double spy of a double spy, a face within many faces and a trained chameleon. He could make up a back story at the drop of a hat, getting the necessary emotions in his voice and facial features like picking toppings at a sundae bar. 

It started with a gulp, loud and edible—nervous and choked up. “It happened so fast. One minute we were eliminating our target and the guards, while Stiles was securing the case. Then he went out and shot the CIA agents, and then Ryder and most of his team—he stabbed Agent Martin before shooting her,” details, details, details, it spins a lie into truth, “and then he went off with the case.” 

Steve nodded for him to go on, his eyes telling him that he’s got the Captain’s attention. Natasha was harder to feel, but the woman’s a trained russian assassin and the best damn liar alive—as long as she didn’t outright call him out or kill him, Ward will just assume he has her in the bag as well. Clint, though, he was stoic, but his gaze—it was too intrusive. 

“We chased after him, me and Agent Hale.” Taking a deep breath and making sure to wince for that added pain factor, Ward closed his eyes. “He somehow dodged us and managed to get behind us before he shot Hale.” 

With that line, Clint finally blinked and shifted. 

Agent Ward hid a smirk into a grimace, thinking he had Clint in the bag as well. Now all that’s left is a garnish of emotions—make it personal, so that they won’t have a reason to doubt you. Make it shocking, so that they would question motives instead of action. Because if they looked into the action too much, they would see how much of it was fabricated. 

“Hale fell from his bike. And by that point, I lost him.” Heaving, closing his eyes, as if trying to hold back his tears. “I just can’t believe. Stilinski and Hale—they were lovers, weren’t they? Wasn’t his team really close? I don’t know—I can’t imagine—I wasn’t his close friend or anything, but at the very least I thought I knew him.”

And for the nail in the coffin, he let out a small pitiful chuckle. “Sorry, Captain. That was unprofessional.” 

Steve nodded in understanding. “It’s not your fault. You were betrayed by a trusted ally.” Sighing, the Captain shared a look with Natasha, who then looked at her best friend unmoved from his position against the locker. They didn’t know how Clint was taking this, knowing well that Clint Barton knew their target personally. 

Ward was no longer skeptical of the archer. Maybe the man was just too shocked by the ‘facts’. But even if he was still doubtful, with the planted evidence and his testimony and the bodies, there’s nothing much Clint could do about it. 

Natasha spoke up, grabbing Agent Ward’s attention. “So the case, it’s with him?” 

_ Dangerous question _ , Ward remarked to himself but outwardly giving a small nod. 

“What’s in it? Did you see it?” 

_ Another dangerous question _ . Ward couldn’t help but compliment the woman in his mind, she was asking all the right questions—the Russians really did it right with their assassins. “I’m not sure I can enclose the details of that information without clearance.” 

Natasha gave him a simple narrowing of her eyes. 

Steve piped up before she could retaliate. “I’ve been authorized all clearance and all resources. We could find the information if we needed it, but it’s better to directly ask you.” 

A lie. Agent Ward knew it was a lie, despite how Steve was effortlessly bluffing, he was trained to see a lie a mile away. Except for Natasha, nobody managed to fool him. But, he’s not going to show he knows it’s a lie. 

Rather, he’s going to take advantage of it. 

“Our mission brief said it was a sensitive document of some sort, and that the case was biometrically locked.” Ward lied through his teeth, but technically it was the truth on paper, so what’s the difference? 

At the very least, they’d never find out what was inside that case. And the answer was satisfactory enough to logically urge Cap’s team to apprehend Stiles without asking too many questions. 

“Thankyou for cooperating. Rest up, and don’t beat yourself up too much. Remember none of this was your fault.” Steve patted his shoulder once in comfort before leaving with his team. 

And if Captain America bought the narrative, then who would deny him? 

Once the doors closed behind the Avengers, Ward stood up from his bench and opened his locker. Huffing out a smile, he pulled out the case from his locker. Hiding the case with his suit, Ward walked out of the locker room. He discreetly made his way to the meeting-point set beforehand. 

His superior was already there waiting for him when he opened the door. Ward instinctively bowed to greet him, “Sir.” 

The man nodded, acknowledging his greeting before placing his hand out. “The case.” 

Ward obediently presented the case on his outstretched hands before moving back to stand, like a dog waiting for an order. 

“I’m sorry Stilinski escaped, sir. I will make sure to kill him before Captain Steve Rogers grab a hold of him.” 

“How are  _ you _ going to find him before the Avengers does?” The man mocked him, his hands working a device to open the case. “Even if they catch him, Stilinski is doomed to take the fall no matter what he says. As long as he ends up dead at one point, there won’t be a complication.” He smirked as the case clicked open. “Of course, it would be better to kill him sooner than later to tie up loose ends.” 

_ ‘But I’m not expecting much _ ’ was the end of that sentence that hung in the air without being said. Agent Ward could only clench his jaw in acceptance. 

Despite being a loyal servant to their cause, Agent Ward knew he was more of a lap-dog than a soldier. But that was okay. He had a plan. To rise up the ranks, build trust and loyalty, one mission at a time.

And he knew his success in this mission boosted him up quite high. 

“What?” 

Agent Ward blinked up at the unexpected shock in his superior’s voice. He was met with a furious glare. 

“You worthless idiot!” The man screamed at him. 

Blinking once more, Agent Ward was at a loss.  _ Why was he cursing him?  _ “Sir? What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong?” The man raged, flipping the open case around to reveal absolutely nothing. “It’s gone, that’s what’s wrong!” 

There was an indentation of a square on both platforms of the opened case, indicating the missing object that was supposed to fit there. 

“What?!” For the first time, Ward panicked. “How is this possible?”

Agent Grant Ward always prided himself as a man who could predict any and all outcomes, to prepare for appropriate back-up. But this was an outcome so incredulously impossible that he didn’t even think about, let alone factor it in. 

A million thoughts raced by: How could the case be empty? What does it mean? Did the object never existed in the first place? Was the object that their whole directive was centered around just a fake ruse? But that’s absurd. 

_ Unless. _

“Son of a bitch.” 

His superior’s glare worsened at his curse, thinking it was directed towards him, his voice a silent indignant anger. “Excuse me?”

“Stilinski, sir.” Ward grumbled, irritated and furious. He was played. Out-smarted by the man he hated most in the world. “He has it.”

***

His plan was simple. Simple may be an oversell, because he simply had no plan. But Stiles wasn’t the least bit bothered by that. His tactic towards every mission he’s completed was always without a clear plan—since he’s long far learned that having plans was just a jinx for disaster, because  _ something _ always goes wrong. 

Thus, having no plan was really the best plan. 

One step at a time. The first being the cursed object in his duffel bag. 

Although taking it was a split-second decision, it turned out to be the smartest move he’s made in that entire god-forsaken day. The black cube was the size of a rubix cube, but with hard shiny dark planes and solid ridges. It seemed like a glass—a high-end, strong and scratch-resistant type of glass—cube solid cube with no opening, no button, nothing special whatsoever, but that can’t possibly be all that there is to it. 

Since he couldn’t figure out what the cube is, he decided to take another approach. The suitcase. 

Stiles ducked into the descending staircase entrance of a secret underground internet cafe—the kind which no one questions why you’re there, and provides a secure connection and completely untraceable. He paid for a private booth, and settled in. 

He remembered the design of the suitcase vividly—and he had an idea of what tech was used in the built. More importantly, he had an inkling of which tech company made it. Even though it wasn’t labelled unlike most of their products, Stiles could never mistake the intricate design and innovative technology. 

Stiles got to work in record time, fingers flying as he hacked into the company’s servers. Even though he was nowhere near close to what Lydia can do, he was still better than most. After all, they had attended MIT for two years together, sharing their intelligence in their different degrees before they uprooted to SHIELD. 

Still, he was hacking into one of the most secure servers in the world, considering the progenitor of the firewalls and security, how could it not be? He barely got past the firewalls undetected, successfully accessing their servers. He filed through their blueprint designs, see if any of them matches the suitcase he encountered. But no matter what he couldn’t find it. 

He bit his lips in frustration, looking at his watch to keep time. Stiles knew the longer he was stuck in one place, the faster they were going to find him and the faster he was going to get noticed hacking into the company’s server. 

Blueprint’s aren’t often placed in servers, especially sensitive projects. But there needs to be a data trail somewhere, or at least a vague description list of the design in the listed projects. Stiles continued searching for his needle in the digital haystack before coming across a file description of a suitcase technology fitting the make of the one he encountered. 

The moment he clicked on it, he was met with a warning pop-up.

[ Unauthorized access. Locked by Howard Stark, accessible by private archives in—]

_ Oh, hell no. _

[—Stark Industries. ]


	4. Whatever It Takes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, fancy seeing you here. How's everyone doing in these stressful times? I hope y'all are faring well and staying healthy <3 Anyways moving on, IM SO SORRY WITH SUCH A LATE UPDATE. Ha Ha Ha. It's been a mess guys, but I'm here, I'm writing—constantly—and I'm trying to juggle two fics at once which is a lot harder hardy-har-har than I'd ever imagine whoops. I get an email notification everytime someone leaves a comment and kudos and it's just like one of the greatest joys in my life, and especially now, so THANKYOU SO MUCH <3 
> 
> This is a long boi chapter, nearing 10k so have a fun go at it! I'm still trying to figure out plot-lines but that's for the ending which is faraway!!!! I had a lot of fun writing the interactions in the chapter and am so excited to progress with the plot and bring new characters in!!!!! I hope my little gift of a chapter update will help fill your time in quarantine~~~

Carl was a good hard-working man. He’s lived a fairly decent life without ever harming anyone or been actively hated against. One might say he’s living his best life, as he had scored a spot in one of the most amazing, innovative and exciting companies that ever existed. It didn’t hurt that his boss was literally a superhero. Carl doesn’t brag, but he thinks that’s pretty cool. 

Be like Carl. But also. 

Since Carl follows a life of order and punctuality, he goes out for lunch like clockwork with his friends. 12:25 pm on the dot. Just enough time to get to any food establishment empty of queues and crowds, just before the lunch rush starts. And today, like any other day, is no different. 

Carl swiped himself out of the security check and turntiles, exiting the building with his company access identity card safely in his pocket. His friends were waiting for him outside, like usual.

He was walking to meet them when someone bumped into him. The man who bumped into him was of a lithe statute, with deceptively hard muscles under the plain pressed suit that accentuates his figure. Carl was a bit taken aback. The man was unfairly attractive with his upturned nose and moles. 

“I’m so sorry.” The man apologizes, both his hands on Carl’s shoulders to steady him after the particularly rough collision. “Are you okay? I wasn’t looking and I’m really late, I’m sorry.”

Carl thought the man had very genuine and sincere eyes. He nodded. “No worries.” 

The man returned his nod and before Carl could say anything, the man left. Carl didn’t have time to dwell on it either because his friends were shouting his name and calling his tardiness. 

Carl shrugged the interaction off and ran to catch up with his friends, excited about what lunch he would indulge himself with after finally wrapping up the project he was a part of. It was a good day, Carl decided.

Ah, sweet hard-working simple man, good days are easy to come. But not today, it’s not. 

Poor Carl. He was going to get in so much trouble for losing his card. 

***

Stiles straightened his suit and walked into Stark Industries with his head held at a respectable angle, shoulders relaxed and footsteps light. Pulling off a cover is not about improv lines and amazing acting, it’s all about posture. Action. The way you carry yourself, your little habits, your confidence in your body, the way you move. Body language is louder than you think, and it catches your eyes more than verbal languages do. 

Lying through your tongue is easy, lying through your body is not. A CEO would be eye-catching, someone important—your steps need to be strong and sure, your voice stable and bold, your eyes bright and innovative, your posture held high and proud. A janitor would be the opposite—your presence needs to be quiet, your steps and voice silent, your posture a bit closed off and distant. A normal employee, or in his case a data analyst, would be camouflaged with the rest of the crowd. Average everything, not too loud and not too quiet, quite comfortable with yourself and your surroundings but not too much as to exert exuberating confidence or ability. 

Stiles breezed through the security checkpoints with the card he nicked off a man in front of the building, one Carl Sandburg. No one batted a single eyelid at him, feeling right at ease with his presence as if he wasn’t an outsider. On top of acting your role, making sure you exhibit the role with your body, you need to control the environment and make sure no one suspects anything. Using your presence to convince someone you belong there, is hard. People are more perceptive than one might think. 

He smiled at people and made small talk in the elevator as need be, telling little white lies: “Did you hear what Dave did? Ugh, that man’s hopeless, it’s his 5th time for god’s sake! I’m not helping him this time, I’ve told him that”. 

Because every office, and yes, that is  _ every _ office, has a Dave. Or a David, but that can be shortened to Dave. It’s a name you can throw out and expect 80% of the time, someone will pick up the thread. John, Dave or Mike. A safe bet. Works like a charm. 

Stiles stopped at the floor he had memorized the layout of in the lobby directory, the database. 

He swiped his card and sneaked in. The dark room opened up to reveal rows and columns full of tall machinery that blinked red, green and blue. In the midst of all these server bank hubs, where all the data and information accessed in the company runs through and is stored, Stiles felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t waste any time in getting access to the one of the station monitors, pulling the access panel out. Opening up his briefcase and taking out a StarkPad he nicked off of a tech room, he plugged the cable in and attached it to his tablet. 

It took him less than five minutes to gain all access, and a minute to filter through it. Here comes his problem, the ‘private archives’. Stiles was hoping to hack into the private archives using the company’s main database frame that was stored into the server banks. But as he filtered through the database trying to find the file he was looking for, he realized it wasn’t going to be that simple. 

Well, if something as secure as a ‘private archive’ in Stark Industry was that easy to access, it wouldn’t be much of a ‘Stark’ thing at all would it. He abandoned looking for the file and instead scoured for black-labelled information and where it’s stored. Because, most probably, that’s where it’ll be. The only thing he ended up finding are shady reports filed under a collective of missions to which he suspects are bootleg operations or dealings, and a whole restricted section on unsanctioned projects. 

Stiles squinted at the latter. A restricted section in a database. Typing a few directives, he found that he wasn’t able to access it even a tiny bit mainly because of the fact that it wasn’t there. This ‘restricted section’ was more of a ghost section. It was pulled off of the main servers and directed to an independent one with no remote access.

He did, however, find out where the independent server was. 

Level A18. 

_ Fuck’s sake _ , Stiles inwardly cursed. 

The building was divided by sectors A, B, C, D and E, from descending order at the very top of the building. The higher it goes, the more restricted access people had to it. Level A was as high as it went. 

Closing the panel back, Stiles packed his things and ran to the directory screen mounted near the door, searching for access to what the hell Level A18 was. Stiles prayed to his lucky stars that it would be a manageable floor to break into — anything was fine except for —

_ Level A18, Tony Stark’s Lab.  _

Well, _ fuck _ . 

***

The door cracked open under the duress. Splintering the door as it banged on the opposite wall it was hinged to, opening up to an apartment. A homey two-bedroom apartment that was absolutely trashed from every nook and cranny.

“Move out.” Steve barked out his orders to the small group of five agents he brought with him. “Secure the area.” 

“We don’t need to secure the area to know that he’s gone.” Clint threw over his shoulder as he filtered through the mess. “What happened here?”

Steve secured his shield behind his back, he was decked out in the standard SHIELD uniform instead of his usual star-spangled attire in order to remain discreet. Because despite all the honor and patriotism that suit inspires, it was undeniably one hell of an eye-catching sore thumb sticking out in plain sight. Fury was adamant that this whole thing should be kept under wraps, and if possible, off the books. “Best guess is that he wrecked this place to destroy evidence before we could get to it.” 

Natasha scoured the broken wall, hands reaching out to inspect the hole in the wall. “This was his secret stash, probably.” 

“What?” Clint dashed forward to her. 

“This wall, it was dug out beforehand, then plastered back up.” The assassin let her fingers trail through the edges of the hole, the debris crumbling in her hand. “Then it was recently broken down again. I’d say Stilinski hid something here probably years ago, judging by the firmness and the colour of the plaster, and he took out whatever it is he had hidden just a few hours ago.” 

Clint frowned. He couldn’t deny that this was suspicious, and it didn’t help Stiles’ case. “What did he hide?” 

Natasha clapped her hands together to get rid of the dust. “No clue, nothing’s left behind. We should get forensics here, stat.” 

One of the agents scurried out to heed her order. 

Steve heaved a fallen bookshelf over, righted it up and inspected the damage under it. Photo frames and trinkets of memories lay broken under the havoc. The Captain picked a photograph up, his target and a fellow agent stood in it, arms wrapped around each other laughing as remnants of cake dripped down their heads. Smiles as bright and unweighted down as the sun. Steve recognized the fellow agent as one of the victims, Agent Derek Hale. 

Something ugly unfurled inside his guts, as he clenched the picture in his hands. He looked to his side as Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, turning to show her the picture. 

“How could he do this?” Steve mumbled. “How could he kill someone he shared a house with, a life with, an intimacy with, all in cold blood?” 

Natasha didn’t say anything, to Steve’s disappointment. 

A voice shouted from further inside, “I found something!” The voice got closer as the agent ran towards them from the room. “Here, sir.”

Steve received the clothing the agent handed to him, quickly identifying it as a SHIELD uniform, one similar to his own. Then he realized it was wet. Pulling his hand away from the cloth, the liquid stained his hand. Blood. “He’s injured.” 

Another agent from the kitchen counter held up a pair of bloodied tweezers and a used bullet. “Sir!” 

Natasha went to the agent and inspected the bullet. “Standard issued, 8 milimeter round, it’s one of SHIELD’s.” 

Clint took the information in. “He was shot by a SHIELD agent. Agent Ward didn’t say anything about landing a hit on Stilinski.”

Steve could see the cogs in Clint’s head working, trying to figure out a truth beneficial to Stilinski. He wasn’t ignorant to Clint’s motive in this mission, he knew that the archer believed their target to be innocent. It was fair, Clint can believe whatever he wants to believe, just as long as the agent doesn’t do anything to sabotage their search. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Steve pushed forwards, dropping the bloodied uniform into an evidence bag. “All that matters is that now we know he’s injured, which means he couldn’t have gone far.” 

Clint’s laughter rang through the broken apartment, shocking the agents. “You clearly don’t know him.”

Steve frowned in confusion.

“Agent Stiles Stilinski was the successor that me and Nat personally chose, vetted by the both of us through and through.” There was an edge in Clint’s voice, something of a proud lilt. It unnerved Steve to no end. “Don’t underestimate him. He could have his gut spilling through an open stomach and he could still outrun most of our agents.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want him to outrun us.” Steve tested the agent, somehow detecting a hint of hostility in Clint’s words. 

“Never, Cap.” Clint smiled through the test.

Steve went to hand the new evidence bag to one of their agents as Clint took the opportunity to sideline Natasha. 

“Look, you and I have been trained in covert intelligence far longer than Steve has. He’s a soldier, brawns and all. We’re intelligence officers.” Clint spoke in a low voice. “I’m sure you’ve realized that this makes no sense.” 

Natasha frowned, although she understood him completely. “This mess, this chaos.” She looked around the thrashed apartment. “It’s unorganized. By the way everything’s destroyed, it’s as if someone was looking for something.”

“Exactly.” Clint’s eyes flashed with resolution. “Now why would someone be blindly looking for something in his  _ own _ apartment?” He saw Natasha try to look away from him but he pushed on. “Even if all this was to hide evidence, Stiles wouldn’t have done it like this. If he wanted to destroy evidence, he’d have done it without us noticing. This basically screams ‘destroying evidence’, that even foot soldiers would pick up on it.” 

Natasha brewed in her own thoughts for a while, knowing that Clint had reached the exact same train of thought as she did. Everything was out of place, or more eerily, exactly  _ in _ place. Too aligned. Too obvious. But she couldn’t pull any conclusions just yet. She shook her head and started walking.

“Come on, Nat.” Clint grabbed her arm before she could turn away from him. “You  _ know _ Stiles. Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me you believe all this bullshit?”

Natasha took one hard and long look at the hand grasping her upper-arm. She took another roaming look at the apartment they were in and took it all in, slowly, before she directed her gaze into Clint’s desperate eyes. 

With a careful gentleness, she took Clint’s hand in hers and pulled him close, close enough to whisper in his ears. “I don’t know. All I know is that all of this, it makes me nervous.” Natasha dropped his hand, and made a move to leave. “And I don’t get nervous.”

Clint set his mouth in a grim line. He looked upwards to meet Steve’s staring gaze from across the room. The Captain gave him an indiscernible frown, and all Clint could do was sigh at him.

***

There are few things that Stiles considers to be impossible tasks to do. Getting in Director Fury’s bed was one, because,  _ Jesus, _ that will be horrifying and disgusting to think of—why is it in his list, one might wonder, well that was a story for another day. Drinking Natasha under the table was another, because that woman could drink vodka all day and still wipe the floor with his ass. Breaking into Tony Stark’s lab undetected was _ definitely  _ also part of that list. 

Stiles quietly sneaked through the vents, which he suspected was the most likely way he wouldn’t be detected by the tantamounts of sensors Tony Stark would’ve definitely placed in his office entrance. He kicked down the vent gate and caught it before it could clatter noisily on the ground. He dropped down into the high-tech luxurious office with not as much as a single sound.

He might’ve not been as stealthy as Natasha, but he was pretty damn good at it. 

Slinking further into the office, he spotted a workstation with a running desktop. He crouched in on himself to make himself invisible under the table with just his head and hands working in tandem over the tabletop. 

He wasn’t the best at hacking, after all he wasn’t a genius like Lyd—Stiles bit his lips at the name, trying to lock all of the emotions that threatened to escape back into his tightly compartmentalized box. Point is, he outranked most of Level 8 intelligence officers in his hacking prowess despite being a Level 7 officer himself. 

Stiles knew this wasn’t going to be easy, that it was just a matter of minutes before he gets caught. He  _ knew _ that. And he knows that he needed to hurry the fuck up and get the information before he gets caught, but something was seriously up with the database. 

_ This is weird.  _ In that he couldn’t find anything. 

He only heard the tell-tale sound of something powering up seconds before he felt the metallic hand and glowing blue light behind his head. 

“Hands up, incognito.” 

Well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t predict this would happen. Grumbling quitely, Stiles raised his hands and slowly got up from his crouch. 

“What do we have here?” Tony Stark spoke through the speakers in his suit, eyes mechanically scanning his movements and the data he accessed. “I can’t say I’m not surprised.”

He knew he was goign to get caught, and knew that it would be Tony Stark that caught him. In fact, he  _ betted _ on being caught. 

Under quick precision, Stiles turned on his foot and jumped over the table to knock Tony’s repulser shot off-course. Before the man had a chance to aim back at him, he grabbed a stray screwdriver and leaped over the genius and wrapped his legs around his shoulder. With the tool in his hands, Stiles jammed the pointed edge under the slips off Tony’s ironman suit and hammered in with his palm.

“What are you—” Tony reached behind him to grab Stiles but Jarvis popped up all kinds of malfunctioning warnings, and the next thing he knew, he couldn’t move. “What did you do?” 

“Do you really think I would go in here without a plan? Without researching all about Tony Stark and his beloved alter ego Iron Man.” Stiles hopped off of the man, landing on the ground in front of him with grace. He stroked the chin of the metal head that the billionaire was wearing. “I’m pretty sure this goes without explaining, but since I’ve just severed the connection in the spine of your suit resulting in your paralyzation, if you don’t do as I say I’m going to do a lot worse to you.”

Stiles picked up a flat-head screwdriver and twirled it in his hands. 

“Well, you’ve got me there." Tony winced at his predicament. “What do you want?” 

With the screwdriver, Stiles pried the metallic mask off of Tony’s head, revealing the famous face. “Access to your private archives.” 

“Why?” The billionaire took a good look at the face of his captor. 

“Because I need information.” Stiles grabbed a rolling desk chair and made a move to heave the paralyzed man in all his suited-up glory into it. 

As soon as Stiles’ hands slipped under Tony’s arms and around his back to move him, the latter whistled. “I’m flattered but I would appreciate a dinner first before getting all handsy on me.” 

Stiles speared him with an icy glare before dropping him into the chair and walking behind it to push it forwards. “I’ve tried to access the private archives on my own but I can’t find it let alone tap into it.” 

“That would be because you need my authorization codes and login.” Tony lulled his head side to side, completely ignorant to the threatening situation he was in. “It’s called private for a reason.” 

With a patience that could rival Confucious’, Stiles took a deep breath to deal with this massive headache of a man. “Give me your authorization codes and login.”

Tony stared at him as Stiles rounded and stood in front of his captive. Stiles could feel Tony analyze him, his build, his strength, his motives. The man was a genius for a reason after all, and Stiles couldn’t take a chance on that. 

He pulled out his gun and cocked it straight against the billionaire’s forehead. “The codes and login. Now.” 

Tony silently stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing, without an inch of fear in his eyes. “It’s not here. The private archives, it’s on a separate database all on its own.” 

Stiles frowned. “Where is it?” 

Tony’s eyes flickered to a bookshelf, and Stiles wanted to roll his eyes at the obvious cliche staring him at the face. 

Stiles rolled the man on wheels with him to the bookshelf and followed his eyes that was directed at a spare arc reactor enclosed in a clear box. He reached out to the box and moved it whichever way until he finally tipped it back and the shelf clicked before it opened backwards like a door. “Seriously. A secret door.” 

Tony Stark had the gall to smirk at him despite having a gun shoved against his forehead. “Not exactly.” 

Stiles went inside the space to find millions of little lights flickering at him in the dark at the circle shaped room. He ventured further in to find a semi-circular desk in the middle of the circle room, with three working desktops lining it and an intricate keyboard system. “What is this place?” 

“This is the private archives.” Tony spoke out from behind him, Stiles only now remembering to pull the man inside with him. 

His eyes raked over his circumference, at the walls with the flickering lights only to realize that the flickering lights belonged to databases built into the walls. Stiles frowned at the whole place, not finding a single power output anywhere within the room. “How is this possible? I don’t see an outlet or a power input anywhere. This configuration, this system, how is it online and completely independent?” 

Stiles whirled around to find Tony smirking. “It’s not possible, ofcourse, that’s why no other tech company has figured it out.” As if stroking his own ego, which was probably what he was doing, Tony smiled even brighter. “Because they don’t have me.” 

“You?” Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. 

“That’s right, me.” Tony flashed his pearly whites at him. “The private archives are only accessible through me, so the moment I die, all this—“ He gestured at the room with a turn of his head, “—goes dead. Information and gigabytes of next generation innovation tech blinked out of existence.” 

“How is that possib—“ Stiles stopped mid-sentence, his eyes caught at the only other light source in the otherwise pitch dark room. “Your arc reactor.” 

“Look at the brains on you.” Tony whistled, nodding appreciatively. “That’s right. The private archives are directly linked to my arc reactor, powered and sustained. Effectively taking it offline and off the grid completely. Without me in close proximity, it won’t even turn on to let you access it even if you charge it with lightning.” 

The man was basically securing his life, making it impossible for Stiles to kill him—not that he was going to anyways. Stiles knew the amount of heat on him right now was already overbearing, adding the heat of killing America’s eccentric hero-billionaire would put him on a burning spotlight. 

Stiles ran a hand down his face. “Just because I can’t kill you, doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you close enough to death’s door.” He shifted the gun into his pockets, opting for a combat knife instead. “Now give me the codes.”

Tony rolled his eyes at the threat. “Weren’t you listening, the private archives are only accessible through me. Not just because I’m the power source. The keyboard is designed to record fingerprints and heat signature, specifically mine.”

“You’re one hell of a paranoid bastard.” Stiles cursed at the billionaire.

“Why, thank you.” Tony bowed his head. “If you want to access those archives, you’ll have to let me move on my own.” 

Stiles weighed his options. Letting the man have a full reign of movements was risky. But. He looked at his watch, the numbers reminding him that he’s been stationed in one spot for more than an hour now. He’d give himself probably another half an hour, maybe an hour tops, before they could locate his position. But that’s still too tight of a timeline. 

He was running out of time, fast. 

_ Fuck.  _ He didn’t have time for thinking about consequences and what-if’s. If worse comes to worst, he’ll take his chances on fighting one-on-one with the billionaire. “But only your upper body. You’ll still be paralyzed from the waist down with your suit.” 

Stiles took the screwdriver he brought with him and started prying off the remnants of the offline suit off of Tony’s body until everything above his torso was out of the suit. 

“Jeez, stingy.” Tony mumbled under his breath before he was pushed into the workstation. He stretched his hands and got to work. With just a few minutes, the desktop came to life with a bright light from the three monitors. “So, what do you want me to find?” 

Taking a brief second to watch the time on his wrist, Stiles took a deep breath. 

“Get me everything Howard Stark stored in this archive.”

***

Without any further clues as to pinpoint Stiles Stilinski’s position, the team had to retreat back to HQ. The minute they got back, Clint scurried off into his own investigation that left Natasha and Steve alone in their Avenger’s allocated mission control centre in the SHIELD compound. 

“Nat.” Steve called out to the redheaded assassin currently disassembling and cleaning her gun. “What’s your take on this?” 

“Take on what?” The woman barely looked up from her activity. 

“Don’t play dumb on me now.” Steve threw a smirk to her direction, which she caught and threw one right back at him. 

Continuing on with her nonchalance, Natasha dropped her head back down to reassemble her gun. “I’ve no idea what you want me to say.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his golden locks. “I don’t know Stilinski, but you obviously do. Both you and Clint taught him the ropes. You know his M.O. better than I do.” 

Natasha finally stopped her hands to focus on the Captain, eyes narrowing at him. “What are you getting at?”

“If you wanted to, you could track him, but you’re not.” Steve crossed his arms from his spot across the table from her. 

The assassin raised her brows, her eyes never showing a single bit of her thoughts. “What makes you think that?”

There was a tense silence that went on between them for a minute that lasted longer than either of them were comfortable with.

Steve broke it first with a deep inhale. “Can we stop with the mindgames, you know I’d never win.” He only got a smirk in return. “Nat, I know that you know more than you’re letting on.” 

The woman didn’t say or do anything to confirm nor deny that, which is all the more frustrating.

“I just want you to tell me.” The supersoldier was ready to go on a whole speech about trust and loyalty but was cut off by a buzzing.

Steve looked down at his pants, before fishing his phone out. Unlocking it to find a rare pop-up, he stood from his seat and showed his phone to his comrade. 

“Is that—?” The redhead looked at the notification on the Captain’s screen. 

“Yeah.” Steve nodded at her. “Do you think it’s him?”

Natasha took a second to process the possibility. “A good chance says it’s him. The timing’s too perfect for it to be a coincidence. We don’t know his motives or what he has with him, so assuming he’s  _ there _ is not a longshot.”

Getting his shield from where it’s propper up against the wall, Steve agreed to her speculations. “Okay, we’re moving out now.” He sent out a digital pager to the five agents they had set out with before to depart.

“What about Clint?” Natasha slid the gun she was working on in her right leg holster. 

The supersoldier paused in his steps for a moment before walking straight through. “Leave him be. I don’t want to risk anything going sideways.” 

***

Tony, with his brain and his looks and his fame, has been in countless situations pertaining and causing death, injuries and painful mind games. It comes with the whole package of being a Stark, a genius and a superhero. He gets it. 

Hell, most of the time, he enjoys it. 

Having been in so many of those, Tony’s developed some kind of gut feeling for it. A sort of indication, or radar, for his own well-being and for seeking out the bigger picture. 

This one, however. This one just throws him off. Completely. 

Tony sneaked a look at his captor. He knows him, ofcourse, in passing. Agent Stiles Stilinski. He’s worked with him before, technically. He didn’t personally interact with the man, but the DELTA Strike team were an exceptional team with many talents--including secret reconnaissance that has helped with a few of Avengers issued missions. Recon has never been the Avengers’ strong suit what with their popularity and unearthly abilities. 

Being the man that he is, Tony kept a lot of bugs everywhere. He likes to be looped in to everything, bit of a busy-body but it runs in the family. So, he’s aware that Agent Stiles Stilinski was currently the target of a nationwide man-hunt, courtesy of SHIELD. 

And that he’s killed off his entire team, including CIA operatives and made way with an object that was a threat to national security. 

Supposedly. 

Tony doesn’t trust SHIELD, he doesn’t trust most things actually, but he always took SHIELD with a bucket of salt. A pinch is too generous. It was pretty straightforward, to be honest. SHIELD may be paraded as a patriotic, honorable, special law enforcement, logistic yada yada bullshit (it’s the name, Tony winced, someone tried really hard to string up words to condense to S.H.I.E.L.D. for no visible reason whatsoever), but it is, at its core, a clandestine espionage agency. 

One that has dabbled more into the underworld and unhonorable means too many a few times. Tony doesn’t trust SHIELD for good reason. Hell, his  _ dad _ was wary of SHIELD and that man was basically Captain America’s number one fan. Aside from Coulson, that is. 

And Fury. Oh, Nick Fury, don’t get him started on Nick Fury. 

So, currently, Tony didn’t know what to think or what to make of his gut feeling as he’s being held captive by this rogue agent. Thus why he kept to himself whilst his pointer finger was being used by Stiles as a stick to scroll down the list of files put in the archives by one Howard Stark. 

Then again, Tony Stark doesn’t do well with keeping his mouth to himself. “Tell me, how does an outstanding decorated operative, admired by many and loved by a lot more, become a murderous traitor overnight?” 

Stiles didn’t even give him the courtesy of a look, his eyes still glazed at the screen. 

“Oh come on, I’m your prisoner, entertain me.” Tony tried jerking his finger away, only to have Stiles press a knife to his neck with his unoccupied hand. 

The agent glared at him before grabbing the finger and monopolizing it once more. “A bad joke, that’s how.” 

“Huh.” Tony made a noncommittal sound, completely unpersuaded by Stiles. “Well, I think--”

“I don’t care what you think.” Stiles interrupted. 

Tony frowned at being interrupted. “ _ I think _ that that’s not half the story.” 

“Has anyone ever told you, you  _ think _ too much.” 

“Actually no, ‘speak too much’ yes, every day.” The billionaire frowned in amused confusion. “Never ‘think’ though, but well, I guess that’s what a genius does, doesn’t it? ‘Think’? It comes with the parameter.” 

Stiles paid no mind to his whims, Tony completely unaware of just how massive of a headache he was to the agent. Closing his eyes for a long minute, Stiles regretted not bringing along a duct tape to shut his mouth. Or, better, a stapler. 

“What are you even looking for?” Tony frowned at the treatment he was getting, or more accurately,  _ not _ getting. “You have me as a hostage, you should make use of that and ask  _ me _ to find whatever it is you’re looking for. After all, it  _ is _ my company’s archives you’re digging into, no one knows it better than I do.” 

Stiles paused in his search, looking at Tony with a renewed interest. It was true. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the tons of files that Howard Stark put into the private archives. He wasn’t overly keen with showing his cards, it goes against every instinct he has as a spy. But then again, he was running out of time.  _ Fast.  _

A split second decision was all it took for Stiles, overthinking it wasn’t going to do him any good. 

“A case. More specifically a suit-case.” Stiles described the case that he had only seen once with as much detail as he could remember. “One with bio-scan security, code input, and equipped to resist shock-waves and both radio and bio-contamination. It’s next-gen tech, the material as well. I think, and this is a very loosely based observation, it’s self-sustaining.” 

Tony spared a questioning glance hiding a million questions, but to Stiles’ luck, he didn’t act on any of those questions. “Right.” 

Biting his lips as Tony searched the data, Stiles knew it was just a matter of minutes before SHIELD would lock onto his position. He’d been stealthy, that much he knew, but this was not a matter to be easily dismissed. By now, Ward must’ve reported back to his superior and would have realized that the object is missing. They must be desperate to get it back, which means their search will be relentless. 

“Here, got it. It’s locked, that’s why you couldn’t find it. My dad didn’t want anyone finding this.” Tony snapped his fingers as soon as he located the file, his own curiosity running wild. “Locked in December 1990, apparently 6 months after the creation of the file. Huh, that’s weird.” 

_ That wasn’t a good sign.  _ “What’s weird?”

Tony turned his head to look at his captor, who was getting more anxious by the second. “The file is corrupted. It can’t be accessed.” His fingers flew across the keyboard to run a diagnostics. “Wait, it was corrupted prior to being locked.” 

“That can’t be right. Something’s wrong.” If it was locked in 1990, and couldn’t be accessed afterwards, then that can mean only two things: either the case was built before then and was only used recently, or someone stole the blueprints from Howard Stark himself. And Stiles was no expert mechanic, but even he could tell that the case was recently made. He ran a hand through his hair. “Can you still pull the data?” 

“Aren’t you listening—” Tony swerved to face him with an annoyed tone, “—the data’s scrambled. It could be recovered, but it might take a while.” 

That was time Stiles couldn’t afford to waste. This whole thing was a bust. And now he was on Tony Stark’s radar for nothing.  _ Fuck. _

“Get the data in a drive and give it to me.” Stiles ordered the man. “I’ll recover it myself.” 

Tony gave him the most judgemental stare he could foster. “Do you even know what you’re looking for to recover? Howard Stark’s data are often convoluted and a bunch of chicken scrawl digitized, you wouldn’t know what the hell you’re doing with it.”

“Do it.” Stiles glared him into submission until he finally started to work.

Without wasting any more distractions, Tony compiled the data and copied it into a spare drive, before unplugging it and handing it over to his captor. “Now what?”

“Now—“ Stiles reached for his gun when a blaringly loud alarm set off, “—shit.”

He grabbed the back of Tony’s chair and wheeled him out of the private archives room. “What is that?”

“That would be Jarvis.” Tony hummed, head propped up to look at the agent scrambling to get things in order. “If you wanted to break into a compound of a billion dollar tech-industry, with the highest security system equipped with the world’s leading AI, you should’ve thought to disable said AI to go about undetected.” 

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose in a frustrated gesture. “What’s the alarm mean?!”

“It means, reinforcements arrived and the whole building is being evacuated. I’d say you have just about under three minutes to get out safely otherwise it won’t be pretty.” Tony smiled at him disarmingly. 

The last thing the smug billionaire saw was the butt of a gun before he blacked out. Stiles withdrew his hand and kicked the rolling chair carrying the unconscious man back inside the hidden archives room and shut the bookshelf to lock him in. 

He quickly slid the drive into his suit’s inner pockets and grabbed his briefcase before slipping back into the vents. 

This was going to be a  _ lot _ harder than he would’ve thought. 

***

Stiles has memorized the layout of the building in his head, and was painfully aware that there were only two viable escape routes that would have the highest chance of getting him out safely and undetected. 

One was the rooftop, which he’d brought a grappling hook and a bunch of rope he could easily access a neighbouring building with, no matter how insane the height was. He’s done with worse chances before and gotten off scotch-free.

The other was way more violent than propelling down a building. It was the service entrance on the side of the building that was mostly used to take garbage out. 

If all else fails, there would still be the main entrance, which may well involve electrifying a bystander into cardiac arrest and fleeing with the ambulance. 

He couldn’t afford to be caught. Not here, not now, not  _ ever _ . Not until he gets his revenge. Until then, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a prison even if it means he’s going to have to kill in cold blood. Stiles has made his peace with it. He’s made a resolution to do whatever it takes.

Morals be damned. 

So he readied his weapons and he ran across the corridors to get to the west stairwell. Before he could get far however, sounds of heavy-duty boots hitting the pristine floors echoed throughout the corner of the hallway he was in. He knows that sound. 

He’s heard it a million times before, his senses are attuned to it. Those were SHIELD issued uniform boots. 

_ Fuck _ . It was a mistake coming here. Stiles plastered himself onto the wall, his hand holding a gun close to his chest and his eyes focused on his peripheral vision to see the enemy coming. His heartbeat was pounding loudly in his ears, in tandem with the footsteps that got closer. And closer. 

And closer.

Seriously,  _ fuck _ this. 

***

There was a rustling of movement in the next corner, Steve detected as he held his hands up to signal the agents behind him to be wary. He took the shield strapped to his back and readied it to attack. 

Their target was known for his superb combat skills, so much so that Steve had to lug his shield around despite the overkill it was using his shield on a mere human.

With a held breath, Steve rounded to corner, his hands coming down in an arc with his shield expecting a gunshot or hostile defence—but all he got was a bright light in his face and a familiar figure glaring in shock at him. 

“Tony?!”

Tony Stark stared him in the face for another second before shaking his head.

“Geez, Cap, what the hell?” Tony barked out as he powered down his repulsor. “Couldn’t have rung the doorbell like a normal person?” 

Steve backed down almost instantly. “Sorry, I thought you were—nevermind. Jarvis sent me the code for security breach in this location. Is everything okay?”

Tony waved his hand dismissively and walked towards where Steve came from, knowing that the Captain and his team would follow him, effectively and discreetly leading them away from the hallway the group of agents were trying to go into. “Yeah, no, sorry about that. Apparently updating Jarvis’ security responses through a Nokia was not a good idea. Thought I might try it, after having found it lying around in my scraps.”

Behind Steve, Natasha gave him a weird look. She’s most likely caught onto his bullshit, since she could sniff out a lie like a doberman. But she probably won’t rat him out, Tony’s found her to be a connoisseur of lies—somewhat enjoying seeing how other people would spin their web of lies and keep it entirely to herself until she can figure out the whole story. 

“Anyways, it was a glitch, wrong alert, no security breach here so don’t go waving your patriotic frisbee around, you’re scaring my employees.” Tony gestured at the few security guards and employees trying to evacuate the building. 

Steve looked to Natasha, noticing the glances Tony had been sending her, before fixing a serious gaze at the billionaire. “Right. So nothing’s wrong?” He looked around, expecting to see  _ something _ . “Nothing suspicious?  _ No one _ ?” 

“Is this disappointment, I sense—are you  _ disappointed _ that for once nothing is wrong, and there’s no susceptible danger trying to come for my life?” Tony dramaticized his reactions, his face a good actor of a hurt and wounded puppy. “I thought I was your  _ friend. _ ” 

With a goodhearted scoff, Steve patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re safe, Tony.” He scoured the area once more with his eyes before looking back to his team, silently confirming something. 

“Oh, I’m so touched.” Tony clutched his heart. 

Natasha shot him a smirk before leading the team to leave, which Tony returned with an amused tilt of his brow. The genius turned to Steve, who was still stuck in his position. Tony gave him a questioning expression, and for a few minutes he had held his breath. 

Maybe Steve didn’t buy his lie.  _ What’s he going to do? _

Before Tony and his brain could start plotting, Steve huffed and straightened his shoulders. “Well, if there’s anything wrong,  _ anything  _ at all, you know who to call.” 

He nodded like a toddler listening to his teacher to get a reward. “Yes, yes, I have the number of the ghostbusters saved in my speed-dial.” 

With that, Steve gave him a laugh and patted him on the shoulder once more then turned to leave. Waiting until he had finally left the premises, Tony did a quick perimeter sweep to make sure no one was around. 

He sped his way back to the corridor he originally greeted Steve in. All of the buildings under his name, he had built and configured to his own taste. Which meant that Tony was the only one who knew of secret hiding spots. 

Including the retractable wall that enclosed a closet-sized empty space in this hallway. Tony stood in front of it and readied his repulser just in case of any attack. 

His hands reached out to push the hidden button disguised as a mark of pattern on the wall, and watched as the wall retracted to reveal—

Nothing.

Tony blinked in shock.

“Oh, son of a bitch.” 

***

Stiles was buzzing with a fuckton of questions. Nothing went at all the way he expected it to, and he basically went through all of that for absolutely nothing. At the very least, his escape was a lot easier than he thought it would—what with everyone evacuating, he slipped into the crowd without much fuss.

What he didn’t understand was why did Tony Stark—the man he had captured, threatened and forced to cooperate with him—help him avoid capture. Stiles thought he was going to get caught for sure until the unmistakable light of Iron Man’s arc reactor entered his vision and he was getting pushed against a suddenly empty space inside a wall and having that wall shut right back, entrapping him. 

At first he thought Stark was just imprisoning him to get his own little revenge, but then the sound of his voice and another man’s went further and further away along with the collective footsteps of the SHIELD agents.

Stiles didn’t need to think much about it before he escaped the hiding spot—after much tribulation and a lot of prodding random spots on the retractable slab of the wall to get it to open from the inside—and ran. 

Now, he was back in the motel he rented earlier, before going to Stark Industries, to drop his stuff off. Stiles ransacked through his duffel bag and found that the black cube was exactly where he’d stuffed it in. 

Some would think it to be reckless, leaving such an important and central key to the mystery he’s trying to unravel in an unguarded motel and not on his person. But Stiles knew better. He’s a target. And he knows he’s good, but if luck fucks him over and he does end up caught, he doesn’t want that cube falling into enemy hands. 

So the safest spot to keep it was actually away from him, at all times if possible. 

But that wasn’t an option either. 

Sighing, Stiles ruffled his hair before slumping on the bed and shrugged out of suit. He emptied the contents inside the suit and found the fruit of today’s efforts.

Looking at the drive in his hand, Stiles wasn’t confident he could recover the data himself. He wasn’t a tech-wiz after all, recovering something that was corrupted ages ago was above his skills. 

This would’ve been a piece of cake for Lydia, though, she was an unparalleled tech-genius.

Something stabbed his heart and twisted his gut, but Stiles bit his lips to ignore it. He took a few deep calming breaths. He let himself lie down on the mattress. Closed his eyes and strengthened his resolve, strengthened the box of locked emotions and strengthened his compartmentalization. 

_ What now?  _

Before he could plan his next steps, the door to his motel room opened.

Stiles reacted as fast as he could, reaching the gun on the bed and tried to shoot at the direction of the door—but he was caught off-guard and his intruder had blocked off his gun’s nozzle and lifted him up and against a wall before attaching some sort of metal bracelet on both his hands. 

“You—” Stiles spluttered when he got a good look at his attacker. 

Tony Stark smirked right back at him, surprisingly not in his Iron Man suit or at least not all of it, only his hands were decorated with the classic red and yellow armour. “Me.” 

The metal bracelet on his wrists blinked a blue light. Stiles looked at it. Then his hands were pulled back straight to the wall, keeping him there. Damn tech-geniuses and their fucking gadgets. 

Stiles glared at the man. “What is this? Payback?” 

“I would be lying if I said it wasn’t.” Tony shrugged.

His panic was crashing through the roof, Stiles tried to wreck his brain about for  _ any _ idea to escape, but he was coming up very short. “How did you find me?” 

Tony simply took a small tablet out to reveal a grid map and a blinking dot on the screen. “I tracked you.” 

“You put a tracker on me?” Stiles barely contained his shouting, he couldn’t help but look around his body to see any signs of a tracker. “When?!”

“That’s not important.” Tony spoke in a hushed voice, trying to get the young man to calm down. “Hey. Look at me, Stilinski, focus.” 

Stiles snapped his head up at the weird tone that the billionaire was using with him. 

“I did some digging while you were Ray Breslin-ing it out there and turns out the file you’re trying to access was locked and never publicized for a reason. I backtracked the digital footprints and a lot of red flags popped up. My dad scrapped that file, and corrupted it with the intention of deleting it permanently before locking it. But that process was blocked and someone made a boot-leg copy of it.”

The agent tried struggling against the detachable cuffs pinning him onto the wall. “What are you on about?” 

“I found trace cover-ups in the system of someone accessing that boot-leg copy before deleting it from the archives completely.” Tony treaded on with no regards to Stiles’ confusion.

Frowning as his attempts to struggle failed, Stiles gave up, huffing in annoyance. “Yeah, I already knew that,  _ dumbshit _ , considering I just saw the case less than 24 hours ago.” 

“No, you don’t get it.” Tony’s eyebrow twitched. “It was accessed by my dad’s login.” 

Stiles took a moment to consider what that meant. But none of it made sense. “Wait, so your dad made a boot-leg copy of a file he corrupted and tried to permanently delete and accessed it later only to delete it, again? Why?” 

“It was accessed in 2006.” Tony cut off Stiles’ train of thoughts. 

Something about that statement was glaringly obviously wrong. “But—”

“Yeah. 15 years after he died.” 

_ That’s not possible _ . Stiles’ brain caught up to what Tony was trying to hint at. “He was betrayed.”

“By someone close, someone he trusted, otherwise they wouldn’t have access to his login.” Tony let a frustrated breath out, a hand crading through his locks. 

“Wait, you said the private archives aren’t accessible without you—” Stiles stopped in mid-sentence as he slowly realized the timeline of this whole incident would have made what he was saying ridiculous, “—oh.”

Tony simply smiled at him degradingly, like he was mocking his intelligence. “Yes, oh. The only reason why I was able to take the private archives offline and set up all those security linked to me because I had the arc reactor.” He tapped the glowing light in his chest. “Which I only obtained after a particularly traumatizing experience in 2008.” 

The mood seemed to have simmered down, or at least it wasn’t violent or threatening anymore. Stiles was sure by now that Tony Stark wasn’t here to arrest or capture him. Which meant—

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Stiles was careful in his approach, but kept a fearless attitude. “Why are you here?” 

Tony Stark sized him up for a minute or two, as if evaluating the man’s worth in his eyes. Apparently whatever he saw, he was satisfied with judging by his nod. 

“There are only a few people close enough to Howard Stark to know those login codes. His work partners, his wife and his butler, Jarvis.” Tony listed off with three fingers held up. “My mom would never go against him, she has no interest in the company, and if that’s not enough proof, she died the same year with him.” 

One finger down. “Jarvis would  _ never _ betray him, and he was long dead before 2006 when the file was accessed again.” 

Another finger down, only one left. “That leaves his work partners.” 

“Work partners?” Stiles tried to think. “The next CEO of Stark Industries after your dad, that guy? Obadiah Stane?”

Tony winced when his name appeared but shook it off. “No. It couldn’t be him, he doesn’t even know the private archives exist, he’s not smart enough to pull that off.” There was a look of forlorn that scattered across his expression but was quickly hidden. “He’s dead now, anyways, he’s not involved in this.” 

Stiles raised his eyebrow. “So who?”

“My dad only ever worked closely with one work partner, of which secrets would be loosely traded and trusted.” Tony stared right into Stiles. “You should know.” 

_ He should know?  _ Frowning at the genius billionaire, Stiles tried to search his brain for someone he knew with connections to Howard Stark, but he couldn’t really pinpoint anyon— _ anyone? _

The realization hit him like a train. 

Tony never said anything about the work partner being a  _ person _ . 

“SHIELD.” He whispered. 

Tony nodded at his conclusion. “I’m 93% sure it was SHIELD. Or at least someone from SHIELD betrayed him.” 

_ Well _ . Stiles should’ve guessed that, after all, the ones after him are  _ from _ SHIELD. But this was somehow unsettling. This would mean there weren't just one or two bad apples in SHIELD, this meant someone important was in on it too—or at the very least, someone who was close to Howard Stark back when he was still alive in the 1990s. And if they were still active in 2006 when they accessed the file, then that kind of seniority in the agency’s ranks would account for something.

They’ve been planning this for a long time. 

Stiles tried to not let that unnerve him. Despite how damning and serious that revelation was, that still didn’t explain why Tony Stark was here telling all of this to  _ him.  _

“Why are you coming to me about this?” 

Tony settled for blankly staring at him before crossing his arms. “Because you were betrayed by them too.”   


_ What?  _ Stiles blinked. 

“Or at least you’re on the opposite side of whoever betrayed my dad.” Tony walked around the motel room, making a sound of disapproval at the place. “You went through all the trouble to look for the file about the case, which means you didn’t even know about it until recently. Wouldn’t make sense for you to do all this if you were with them, because they already have access to the file.”

Stiles tried to gage the man. “Maybe this is part of the plan.” He narrowed his eyes and turned his lips into a dangerous smirk. “To get you here.” 

Tony gave him an appraising raise of both his eyebrows, as if to ridicule him of this half-ass play “Maybe.” He scoffed. “But I’m willing to bet this case was the thing you supposedly stole and ran off with—which was the objective of the SHIELD issued manhunt for you. But by the looks of it, you don’t have it.” 

As he watched the man filter around the room, picking up random things only to shake his head in criticism, Stiles continued his play. “How do you know I’ve not hidden the case somewhere else?” 

“Because you don’t know what it is. When someone as intelligent as you are in possession of an object that you don’t know the use of, you would keep it close instead of far away—but in your case, you’re a fugitive, so you can’t keep it too close on you but not too far either. Which means if you have it, it has to be in this motel.” 

Stiles couldn’t argue with that logic, because that’s exactly what he had thought to do with the cube. 

“You don’t know what it does, and  _ that’s _ why you came looking for the file.” Tony snapped his fingers at the stressed syllable. “You desperately needed to know what that case is, and what it does, which is—in and of itself—a very odd thing. Most people don’t care about the case, a suitcase is meant as a security measure. To protect something.” 

Tony knew he was hitting the target dead on when Stiles kept silent. Thus, he continued on. 

“So why would you?” The genius made his way to Stiles once more. “It doesn’t make any sense why you would need to know what the case does, what’s important is that its job is protecting something. Right? Well, ofcourse. Unless—”

Tony bent his head down to lock his eyes with Stiles’ dead in the center. 

“—you don’t know what it’s protecting.” 

Stiles was as good of a liar as they come, his poker face as thick as thieves. So he did nothing but blink. 

But apparently a blink was enough for a genius like Tony to confirm his findings. “You don’t have the case, and you don’t know what it’s protecting—But! You  _ have _ it. If you didn’t have it, then you wouldn’t have known that it was something you didn’t know anything about, and you wouldn’t come looking for the file on the case.” He stood straight back up. 

“SHIELD is headlining your manhunt with accusations of murder and treason, more specifically running off with a ‘ _ case _ ’ guarding a ‘ _ sensitive document _ ’ that was a threat to national security if released—or at least that’s what the mission file said.” Tony waved his hands off as if he was disregarding the info. 

Stiles didn’t even need to ask to know how Tony had access to classified SHIELD intel and mission files, probably illegally that’s how. 

“But you don’t have the case.” The genius listed off, and took a seat on the bed facing Stiles. “And you’re certainly not dumb enough to not know what ‘sensitive documents’ are to the point where you’d need specs on the case to figure it out. Also, a case that  _ the _ Howard Stark designed and decided that it should be permanently scrapped, could not  _ possibly _ be used to handle a mere ‘sensitive document’.” 

The fugitive could only stare straight back at his captor.

“So this whole manhunt—” Tony gestured to the room, “—it’s a lie. A ruse.” 

Stiles always thought he was smart. Smarter than most of his peers, a damn good espionage spy, and a genius at thinking on his feet. That’s why he was chosen as a leader. His qualifications and his brains outranked almost everyone in SHIELD, even those older than him. 

But Tony Stark was a man in his own league. He just tore apart and analyzed his actions and found the truth like it was legos. 

“Fine.” Stiles gave up trying to out-play the man. “What do you want?” 

Tony smiled at getting the man to admit defeat. “I want you to help me.” 

“Why?” The response was lightning fast.

Tony met him with the same speed. “I don’t like it when people think they can get the upper hand over me.” He leaned back, propping his hands on the bed he was sitting on. “Plus, I have to avenge my dad being betrayed, yada yada, filial duty, and all that tear-jerking backstory.”

Stiles could feel a migraine pounding in his head at the idea of handling Tony on a probable daily-basis. He already had a massive headache right now and he hasn’t even known the guy for all of a day. 

“If we end up proving your innocence along the way, then well, that’s just a bonus side-treat for you.” The man was dangerously good at that, negotiating and making you fall under his thumb to give him exactly what he wants. “So, actually, I’m helping you.”

But at this point, Stiles was out of options. Plus, a genius like Tony could be better equipped at figuring out what the hell that black cube does. Since his father was already involved, it was better that he could get the son to be on his side of this risky chess game. 

“Okay.” Stiles breathed out with a sense of defeat. “Okay, fine, I’ll help you help me whatever.”

Tony Stark flashed him a blinding smile at their new partnership. "Great! I was getting bored anyways."

Stiles could only respond with an exhausted eye roll, all he wanted to do was take a nap. “Now could you please let me down, my legs are falling.” 

“Oh!” Tony jolted out of the bed in action, a tiny sheepish expression splashed on his smile. “Right, sorry, forgot about that.” 

_ God, help him. _


	5. Loose Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all~ Haha whoops sorry for disappearing on you like that! I've just been under a lot of things right now and couldn't seem to find a time to work on this but well here I am! I'm so so sorry for that, and every time I see a kudos pop up in my email or a new comment on this pic, it makes me all the more motivated to get this done and squeeze in every bit of time I have to this--which is why I'm updating at like 4 am in the morning. 
> 
> RIGHT THE PLOT IS KICKING OFF Y'ALL. And because I've made you wait for so long, I'm going to tell you a little spoiler for the next chapter which is ITS GOING TO BE A HECCIN CHAPTER. The next chapter will be jammed-pack with all the shit you probably signed up for? Or didn't? But yeah, look forward to it. (Hint: Our second main character will finally be in this story, after five fucking chapters so calm down people. Bucky's coming, I promise, after all this is a Stiles x Bucky fic, it wouldn't make much sense if he wasn't in it.)
> 
> BUT FOR NOW! Enjoy~~~
> 
> P.S. So thought this might be interesting info: When I started writing this, I’ve made a list of names for this fic and Danse Macabre is what I ended up with, because I love Saint-Saens and it’s just a fitting name. Other names I had in mind were: ‘Wanted’--‘Infamous’--‘The Fugitive’--‘Hunted’--'A Hunter’s Game’--‘The Condemned’--‘Deals with The Devil’--‘A Higher Loyalty'--‘The Joker’s Game’--'Coup D'etat'. Hope you liked what I've chosen for the title ;)))

“So.” Tony spoke up with a wince as he looked at the cuff marks on Stiles’ wrist, “You going to come clean about what you’re hiding or what?” 

Stiles pinned the billionaire with a blank stare. His hands were busy trailing the marks left on his wrist by Tony’s gadgets. He was still sceptical about this new alliance they’ve formed. He had the right to be paranoid, because look where trusting others have left him—alone, all his loved ones killed brutally, and forced into a manhunt. 

But he’s shit out of options, and teaming up with a famous multi-billionaire tech stardom genius (and superhero, because who would ever forget that) might not be the best idea when you’re trying to be as inconspicuous as possible—but unfortunately, it’s his only idea.

“What am I hiding?” Stiles feigned innocence.

Tony scoffed. “The easier question would be what are you  _ not _ hiding.” He sat on one of the arm chairs situated near the blinded windows. “Come on, humor me.”

There was a tick in Stiles’ eyebrows. “Humor you?” 

“This conversation isn’t going anywhere if you keep on reflecting my words like a thick wall. And you’re anything but thick, so loosen up a little and start somewhere.” Tony leaned forward on his elbows perched atop his knees. “What happened that night?” 

Stiles took a moment to let the involuntary steel freeze his nerves and his muscle, took a longer moment to let it seep away as soon as it came. He figures it’s never going to go away, that some part of it will stay with him forever. To freeze and toughen up like magma in cold waters—and never be able to change back. 

He doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t. 

He’s grateful for the reminder. For the biting pain and the shock to his systems, running down his spine and settling in his bones. He wants it to stay. He needs it to stay, to fan the burning rage and injustice that he feels. 

He’d be damned if it ever burns out. 

“What happened is my team and I got screwed over by Agents Ward and Ryder and the four CIA operatives. It was premeditated, everything. They’d plan to kill us all, had back-up teams waiting outside the building in case we got out—which we,” Stiles winced, though his body language and vocal tone did nothing to show for it, “no,  _ I _ did. From what I picked up, the true leader is someone Ward was reporting to, a higher-up within SHIELD. They tricked the CIA operatives into thinking they had the upper hand before killing them.” 

It wasn’t the tone of voice or temperament that he’d expected, especially for someone retelling such a recent heavy trauma. It was steel cold, detached, hard and deceptively vicious. If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that Stiles was just recounting someone else’s events instead of his own. 

“Is there any way you can prove your innocence?” Tony’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, something resembling pity shining in his voice. 

“They had my gun, so ballistic reports would point to me. Then there’s Ward and Ryder’s testimony against me, and the body count. I’ve been known to go off the books, a rebellious leader, so I guess that’s enough circumstantial evidence to go after me.” Stiles busied himself with searching for and opening the first aid kit. “So much for loyalty.” 

Tony watched him carefully, for once dampening his urge to ask questions about his behavior. He didn’t need to because Stiles began to shed his clothing and the blooming red on his midriff gave him all the answers he needed. 

He figured Stiles wouldn’t appreciate the 20 questions about his wound, so he avoided it. Instead he focused on track with the actual discussion. 

“It doesn’t make sense.” Tony started on the doubts he’s had since he’s heard of this whole ordeal back in his office. “You’re elusive, you’re a legend, and your team has an impeccable record. You’re one of Fury’s favourites, your team’s as close as family, and it’s not exactly a secret. It’s hard to paint a picture of your betrayal, especially one so violent as a whole massacre. So, how’d they manage to do it?” 

The fugitive peeled off the makeshift bandage he hurriedly put together in his home, no—his previous residence, wincing at the act. The stitches were looking good, no signs of infection although it was a bit inflamed, but he’ll take what he can get. Stiles grabbed a rag and doused it with water, before cleaning his stitched up wound from the blood.

“I’m not sure what anyone thinks about this, maybe some of them are oblivious or even suspicious of all this, but all that matters is that they’re under orders to get me.” He threw the rag off to the side and made a move to open the bottle of disinfectant. “What they probably don’t know is that the second they march me in there, I’d be dead before I can say a word.” 

Tony made a noncommittal noise, his eyes training Stiles’ movements like a hawk. “Maybe. But my point wasn’t that this was an unlikely plan, it’s a very logical plan. What doesn’t make sense is that their plan involved setting  _ you _ up.”

Stiles stopped his actions. His hand was holding the disinfectant, and the other was holding a clean cloth to absorb the liquid. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it before, he has. He thought it ridiculous when Agent Ward and Ryder betrayed them, he even said it out loud. The words: ‘don’t you know who we are?’. 

“In fact, anyone in the agency would be a much easier picture to paint than you—be a hell of a lot easier target than you, definitely.” Tony added fuel to the flame. “Setting you up is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

He was right, of course. But Stiles chose to ignore it, choosing instead to go back to patching up his wound.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence.” He tried to shrug it off. 

“You and I both know there’s no such thing as coincidences.” Tony scoffed at his poor attempt. 

Stiles eyed Tony with such ire in his eyes that he just gave up putting a front with the man. “Fine, if you want to know what I think, then it’s probably because there’s no one else.” 

“No one else?” 

The younger man sighed, knowing that arguing with the billionaire genius would be more trouble than it's worth. He grabbed the disinfectant soaked cloth, took a deep breath, and pressed it hard against his stitches. The biting pain came instantly, causing him to seethe through his teeth.

“I got the mission  _ because _ it was unnervingly suspicious.” Stiles talked through his pain. “There was almost no details, no plan, no straight lines drawn on anything—which was why Fury thought I’d be the only one able to handle it, jokes on him.” 

Tony warily eyed him but nodded, taking in the new intel. “Fury gave you the mission?” 

“Yeah.” A blink. 

A frown. “Personally?” 

Stiles stared at him with barely hidden judgement in his eyes, “Is there something you’d like to say?”

“No, nothing.” Tony met his stare with an equally unphased one of his own. “As long as you understand.” 

Both of them kept up their show of hand until Stiles looked away first. 

“Well, it’s that or my stunning luck, let’s leave it there.” Stiles busied himself with bandaging his newly disinfected wound, making sure to keep a tight compression as he wrapped the bandage around his torso, once, twice and thrice. 

The people’s beloved hero was suspiciously quiet throughout this entire procedure. Stiles didn’t inquire into it, and Tony wasn’t expecting him to. But the tension was still there. 

Something’s gotta give. 

“Fine.” Stiles clipped the end of the bandage in place and threw the rest to the bed. He grabbed his duffel bag, rummaged it for something and tossed it straight at the superhero. “Here.” 

Tony caught the incoming projectile at him with surprising practiced ease, failing to contain his small pride of victory at phasing the man. He turned the black cube in his hands, inspecting the object with a newfound curiosity. “What’s this?” 

“I don’t know.” The younger moved around the room to collect his discarded medical supplies. “That’s what I need you to figure out.” 

There was a few seconds that went by undisturbed, until Tony finally caught on to what Stiles was implying. “Wait, are you saying this is--”

“The object inside the cursed case your father built?” Stiles took the words right out of his mouth, as he threw his collected trash in the bin. “Yes.” 

Tony looked at the object with marvel. “You’re just giving it to me like this, no fuss, no fight, no mind games and mess?” 

“For safekeeping.” Stiles nodded.

“After all that paranoia?” 

“The reason they’re hunting me down so desperately is because of that object.” Stiles slid the duffel bag under the bed to keep it out of the way. “I’m good, but even I’m not sure how long I can outrun an entire organization full of agents trained in the same art I was, especially if they sicced Level 6 agents on me.” 

He sat back down on the bed with just a slight hint of exhaustion.

“If I get caught, I’d be damned if I let them get their hands on it.” Running his hands across the comforter, Stiles smoothed down the wrinkles on the fabric. “You’re my best bet at keeping that thing safe. Besides, I’m no tech expert, so it's useless in my hands. At least this way, you can get answers I never can and figure out what the hell makes that damn box so fucking important that I lost  _ everything _ to protect it.” 

When Tony met Stiles for the first time, he thought the young man was reckless. What else would he think? Breaking into Stark Industries was a reckless move especially for someone on a fugitive list of the most elusive clandestine agency in the world. But he thought to partner up with him despite the odds, because Tony didn’t know who else would jump into this derailed trainwreck of investigating SHIELD with him. Even if his partner was a reckless mess that was driven by emotions. 

But this made it clear—Stiles wasn’t just emotional, he was smart about it. He wasn’t on a rampant search for revenge, he was on a calculated warpath. He had contingencies, and more importantly, he knew he could fail. 

The most important thing to have in their trade is the knowledge that you may fail. Anyone who’s not afraid of a sword, does not deserve to be in the battlefield. Anyone who knows not of loss, does not deserve victory. 

“What are you planning to do now?” Tony asked with a hint of caution. 

Stiles picked up on it but didn’t bother to address it. “I’m gonna pull on loose-ends and see what they unravel.”

Rolling his eyes, the man of iron leaned forward with a tested expression, “Mind explaining on that, or would you rather stay cryptic?” 

For a moment, Stiles simply pulled out his gun and settled it in his lap, all the while keeping his gaze on the superhero. Tony froze for half a second before he realized the man was pulling his leg. The older man raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and Stiles scoffed. 

“By now, we’ve established that SHIELD is compromised. I don’t suppose we can do anything about that part until we have further intel. What I don’t get is what the CIA has to do with all of this.” Stiles disassembled his gun that he pulled out, cleaning out the components. “They were working together, or at least they were until Ward and Ryder double-crossed them and killed them point blank. That means, despite the double-crossing, they were after the same thing. I’m going to see if I can poke the bear and get some answers.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Tony played it around in his head. “They tend to be very sensitive about people poking their bear-behinds.” 

It was Stiles’ turn to raise an unimpressed brow at the ill-fated pun. “The CIA has no jurisdiction in the US.” His hands moved at an automatic muscle memory. “They have to use miscellaneous and clandestine methods to do their biddings around here—which makes my job a whole lot easier. They’re not supposed to be involved in the first place, and they know it. They won’t risk causing a scene when they’ve got their hands caught in the cookie jar.” 

Still sceptical, Tony crossed his arms. “You know they’ll deny everything, right?” 

“They can try.” Stiles hummed, nonchalantly. “But I have proof.”

“You do? How?” 

“You do know who I am, don’t you?” Stiles tilted his head to the side, scrutiny in his eyes at the nerve of the man’s need to question him. “How do you think I got my position? Despite what happened, I’m  _ always _ careful. I don’t go shaking hands without a fail-safe.” Stiles clicked the last component of his gun in place, and wore his best business smile as he did so—slightly threatening but all the more charming. “Every co-op I’ve ever had with less-than-savory partners, I make sure to keep their dirty laundry to air out if it gets down to it.”

Tony raised an impressed brow, taken aback at how unexpectedly cunning his newfound partner was. “Well, maybe you’re not just a pretty face after all.” He looked around the room but paused, the words finally settling. “Wait.” 

Looking back at the fugitive, Tony narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean you have something on  _ me _ ?” 

The smirk he got in reply was nothing short of concerning, and did absolutely  _ nothing _ to help him. 

***

Contacting the CIA is a lot easier than most people would think. Especially if you were already on their radar, and Stiles is definitely up high on theirs right about now. So all you really need to do is get their attention. 

This can be done through several ways, but they’ve always been notoriously discreet and bounded by billions of red tape so you have to be equally as careful and persistent. In their line of business, there are certain names that pop out more than others for various reasons, but this makes them known and easily spotted. 

Stiles happens to know one name. A rather famous one actually, not just in their line of work but also in the general public. They’re exceptionally good at keeping a facade, living a double life and keeping everything separate from each other. Which was probably why his connection and position in the CIA has been a well-guarded secret. 

With his hoodie off, he walked into the building of his destination and reached the reception desk. Stiles smiled at the lady and hitched his bag higher up his shoulder, looking every bit as unprofessional as she saw him. 

“Hey, I’m here to see Mr. Whittham.”

The receptionist behind the desk took a look at him and had the tiniest frown line between her eyebrows, as to be expected with his less than formal way of addressing her employer. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but tell him Stilinski is here to see him.” He started tapping the countertop to raise her hackles, acting cocky. 

The receptionist—Linda, if her name tag was anything to go by—was struggling to keep her business smile for him. But Stiles was still as calm as a cucumber. “I’m sorry sir, but you can’t meet with him unless you have an appointment.” 

Taking a step forward, Stiles leaned against the counter and smiled as politely as she did. “I’m sure you’re excellent at your job, so I don’t want anything bad to happen to you once the top brass finds out that you sent away an honoured guest of his. It’ll take less than a minute to phone up and find out whether or not I’m telling the truth.” He flashed his teeth at her as his smile grew wider and his eyes grew slanter. “So I highly suggest you do that.” 

Linda had her hand half-way to the button to call for security, but something about the glint in this rude stranger’s eyes froze her in place. Something about the way he carries himself tells her that he’s dangerous, that he would get his way no matter what she does. 

So she took a deep breath, and picked the phone up for a direct line upstairs. “Hi, yes, I’ve got a Mr. Stilinski here to see—” her eyes widened and she sneaked a look to the enticing stranger “—oh yes, yes, I’ll send him up right away, sorry for the trouble.” 

Stiles spared her the guilt by slapping his hand on the counter softly, and flashing a brighter grin. “Thankyou for the help. I’ll let myself up.” 

Stunned, Linda took a moment before coming back to her senses and calling out the floor number to him, “It’s the 8th floor!”

The only thing Stiles did to reply was to send a wave of a hand thrown carelessly over his shoulder. He got into an elevator and rode his way up, checking his watch for the time as he did. 

Once the doors opened on the right floor, Stiles strode onwards with little to no regard to his surroundings, power walking his way to the grand doors and ignoring the call of the secretary as he pushed the doors open without even so much as a knock. 

The man behind the desk was in deep-thought, when the door opened. He looked up to see a face he hasn’t seen in quite a while, and instantly a frown laced his features. 

Stiles scoffed a smirk, inviting himself in to sit at the plush chair opposite the desk, dumping his bag on the chair beside it. He settled in with a greeting, “Senator.” 

Senator Alec Whittham. Renowned by his peers, loved by the citizens and a prominent member of the CIA working under the shadows. He’s got the best of both worlds, really. The man was definitely powerful, you can give him that. But he’s got a nasty side darker than Hannibal Lecter. 

He was an A star douchebag, which you had to be to authorize CIA operations within the United States. His position gains him easy access to blind out the records and have an eye out for everything that happens in the senate and political balance. Alec Whittham was one of the best sharks Stiles had ever known. 

So of course, they’ve butted heads more times than they’ve made nice. Because Stiles was just as much of a shark as he was. 

“Agent Stilinski, you have no manners as usual.” Alec took off his reading glasses and leaned back into his own desk chair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

Stiles copied his posture. “You know why I’m here, let’s not play that game and waste everyone’s time.”

“Do I?” The senator kept a poker face. 

“Surprising right?” Stiles threw back every inch of confidence the senator was throwing at him. “I would’ve expected you lot to learn your lesson the last time we ever collaborated on an op.” 

The man tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure I’m following—the US senate has never worked with the likes of you before.” 

“Mmm.” Stiles nodded, entertaining the man before leaning forward to rest his hands on the table. “But you keep forgetting something.” 

Alec raised his eyebrows, believing he still had the upper hand. He really should learn to do his homework on other people.

“I know about Baghdad.” 

The facade of calm and strength Senator Alec Whittham had retained fell away with the words Stiles dropped, and the overwhelming turn of tables was heavy in the atmosphere. 

He’s been holding this card in his pocket for a long time. Stiles could as easily be incriminated by what happened in Baghdad as much as Alec, but the senator certainly had a lot more to lose than he did. And the man knows it. 

Especially now that Stiles doesn’t have anything else to lose. 

“I was there after all, and you know me Alec, I always keep records. There’s nothing stopping me from releasing that.” Stiles slid his finger across the man’s official desk name plate before picking up an ornament chess piece the senator had decorated his table with. “So if you don’t want the truth getting out, you’re going to tell me everything you know.” 

“Do you seriously think you can threaten me?” The government official glared at his rude guest, knowing that he was in a pinch. “I am a senator of the United States’ congress.” 

“I don’t need to do anything if the knife’s already against your throat.” 

Alec gripped the arms of his seat tightly, restraining himself from grabbing the gun under his desk to do something irrational and let his rage take over him. But Stiles Stilinski wasn’t a man you can just kill--he needed to be erased from the world with extraordinary measures. And that takes planning. 

So he swallowed his pride and kept silent. 

Stiles could see the moment the senator made his decision. “I’m sure you’re a busy man. So, you have until the end of today.” He grabbed his bag from the next seat over and hitched it back on his shoulder, “Or tomorrow you’re going to be the breaking news of every major media outlet across the world.”

He got up from his seat loudly on purpose, pushing the chair back with force. Stiles did a mock bow to the man before stopping at the door. 

“Do choose wisely, Senator.” He had a faux pity in his voice that he knew irritated the man to no end. “I voted for you, so I’d hate to see you go.” 

Leaving the building was surprisingly an easy feat, Stiles wouldn’t put it past the senator to sabotage the elevator and trap him there. Well, even if he did, it would serve to his purpose so he didn’t mind. 

For now he had to wait, hopefully not long. So he strolled out into the streets and walked without aim. After a few blocks he got his answer and changed his direction towards a secluded area. 

As he rounded the corner he slipped into a carpark basement, Stiles took note of his surroundings, the open pillars, the sparse cars and the faded darkness of the dingy place. 

There was a crumpled can by his feet, he bent to take it. When he got back up, he was surrounded by five men on all sides. 

“Took you guys long enough.” Stiles huffed, blowing a breath of air upwards to his bangs. “Was starting to wonder if I didn’t come knocking hard enough.” 

The five men were dressed in combat dark-uniforms, no insignia of loyalty to an organization. But they weren’t fooling him, he knew where they came from. Oh Alec, this was so routine. Seriously, he should try and make this harder for him—it’s too easy, it’s starting to become a joke. 

“Let me guess, you here to take me in? Alive, because I wouldn’t be much use dead.” Stiles zipped his hoodie off and threw it to the side, cracking his knuckles and stretching to warm-up. “Whisk me off to be tortured in a blacksite facility you’re not supposed to own, but operate anyways?”

He stopped his actions and took his stance. “Won’t be that easy.”

Because the CIA weren’t known for their manners, all five of them jumped him at the same time. Stiles made a note at the back of his mind that they were all high-level combat agents, probably an assassination unit from a blackbook budget somewhere. So, this assured his assumptions that this  _ was _ indeed important for the CIA. 

Makes him wonder what the hell he’s gotten himself into. 

Without breaking a sweat, Stiles lunged to the ground and into a forward roll, avoiding all five of the incoming targets and kicked his leg out to knock the one nearest him off the ground. Coming to a stop, he skidded across the pavement on his knees and punched one of the other guys in the knee.

The trick to fighting is actually easy: know your advantage. This is especially important in a fight where you find yourself outnumbered. Always try and get the upper hand, even if it means going low. Vantage points are his best advantage in fighting groups, so he’s going to fight this as close to the ground as possible. 

Stiles kept his body lowered to the pavement as much as possible and used his agile knees to his advantage. He rounded a kick parallel to the ground and took two guys on his right off balance, before charging with his whole body to the guy in front of him--shoulder-checking the opponent’s stomach as he took them to the ground. 

Don’t worry about finishing them off, all you need to do to ensure a win in an outnumbered fight is take them out of commission--even just for a little bit--one at a time. Easiest way to do this is to knock their centre of gravity off, and give them a concussion of a fall. 

He didn’t waste time to tuck his body into another roll, getting up and off the body he knocked down and onto his foot. By the time the first guy he knocked off was back on his feet and lunging at him, Stiles had already sucker-punched him across the gut and double-crossed with one across his jaw. One down.

Establish an order, and follow it. If you’ve managed to do that, well then, you’ve got it under control. 

The second one was limping by his knees, and decided to use his body weight as a weapon as he moved to body-check him. Stiles simply turned on his foot and nailed the guy on his spine with the bottom of his fist, then using his knee to brutally impact the side of his stomach as he went down. That’s two. 

As he turned his attention to his back, two guys were on him and caught his arm at the elbow whilst the other was aiming a straight punch for his face. Two-teaming him was definitely a good strategy, these guys were smart all right. It would’ve worked. But he’s been through this a million times. 

Stiles forced his arm upwards and grabbed the guy on his back by the neck, as soon as he did he switched his center of gravity and threw the guy over his back as he bent forwards. The momentum from the flip crashed his captor to the other opponent on his front and sent them both tumbling to the ground in a painful twist.

He huffed a breath and recentered his gravity. Three and four. 

Blinking, Stiles heard the slightest movement behind him and ducked to the side as he avoided a punch straight for his head. He drove his elbow back into the guy’s liver. As the man doubled back in pain, Stiles took a step back before launching forwards in a round-house kick, his feet catching the guy on the face and forcing him to the ground as his skull impacted the concrete with a resounding thump. 

And five. Stiles took a deep breath and settled his adrenaline, his blood rushing in his ears. The silence returned to the empty car park, with five new unconscious bodies on the ground. You might think that he’d made a mistake by knocking all of them unconscious, after taking such measures to lure them in, but he knew better. 

Assassins, not as much as agents, are a pain in the ass because of one thing, discounting their deadly factor: they are trained to be dispensable. They were trained to die before revealing information. So that was a dead-end on their part. 

And he knew Alec wouldn’t budge a single bit, because this whole thing they were involved with was just as equally—if not more—incriminating than Baghdad.

So why bother luring them out?

Simple. Assassins are chess-pieces, and every chess piece has an owner. They might not advertise it on their clothes or their allegiance, but they have incriminating ties on everything else. 

Alec may have been the one to authorise ops within America, but he doesn’t oversee every one of them personally—that would be impossible to do with his workload as senator. He’s the director of a bunch of managers, each one overseeing a different op, who all report back to him. 

Finding these ‘managers’ are nearly impossible, because of the tight security of command. But it’s always easier connecting the dots from the bottom ladder up, which meant the foot-soldiers. 

This was what he was aiming for. 

Stiles rummaged through one of the assassin’s clothing, stripping behind each padding and patting down their limbs. When he said incriminating ties, it’s technology mostly: their gun models, their comms and—Stiles stopped his hands as he came across a bump under the skin at the back of the elbow, smirking—their trackers.

Fishing his pocket knife, he made a clean incision to dig the tracker out of the skin, wiping the blood off with the ripped clothing. 

CIA were very particular about their assassins, because about 50% of them go rogue—no wonder why with their barbarian techniques and throwing almost everyone under the bus for their benefit—and so they took extraordinary measures. 

Before this, he wasn’t sure about whether the tracker was actually a thing they implemented, it was all just his speculation. but thank god he was right. If there was one thing he could count on, it was the bad tendencies of even worse people.

If he was in a better state of mind, he would’ve thought it was sad. Stiles rolled the tracker against his pointer finger and thumb, looking at the guy he just pulled it out of. 

But he wasn’t, and he was fresh out of fucks to give. 

Stiles flipped the tracker in the air and caught it with a swipe of his hands, tucking it in his pocket. He stood up to pick his hoodie off the ground, dust it off and shrugged it back on along with the hood before strolling out into the streets with a new intel in hand.

***

“Hey.” 

There was a crackle over the line before he got a response. 

“Where did you get my phone number?” Tony blinked at the voice, taking his phone away from his face to check the number and then placing it back against his ears. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Don’t underestimate me. I need you to do something.” 

“Aw, did the nice office-men at the agency give you the shoulder?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Gathering his patience once more, Stiles simply ignored the quip. “I need you to track a signal for me.”

There was a clear line in the conversation when the mood instantly switched from laid-back to professional. Tony sat straighter on his chair in his lab. “Tracing a signal? Can’t you do that pretty easily?” 

“Yeah, but I’m short of time.” Stiles tugged his hoodie over his head, shadowing his face. 

Back in his lab, Tony was already on one of his desktop, his hands moving on the keyboard with the goal in mind. “How do you expect me to track a signal if I don’t have access to whatever device you’ve acquired?”

Scoffing at the poor-attempt of a lie, Stiles steered himself to a corner shop. “There’s a reason why I haven’t thrown out your bug.” He flicked at the bulge behind his belt strap. “You’ve probably already scanned and locked onto the signal by now.” 

Tony’s fingers paused on the keys, he looked back and around him just to make sure Stiles hadn't magically transported to his lab. Because he was absolutely right, his bug that he planted picked up the signal transmitted by the tracker Stiles acquired and was now running a search-trace. 

He had to hide back a click in his tongue, but he couldn’t resist the smirk that pulled at his lips and into his tone. “Well, you’re  _ very _ welcome. See, I’m a very handy partner to have.” 

“Just run the trace.” Stiles busied himself with purchasing a disposable camera and phone whilst inside the shop, heading towards the counter to pay in cash. Corner shops never had high security or even cameras for that matter of fact, so thank god for the owner’s cheap tendencies. 

Having placed the bug on Stiles, Tony knew where he was at all times and what his movements were so he could guess what the signal he was tracking was for. It was a throw of the dice, placing that tracker—because Tony was still sceptical about the man and he always liked to know the most out of a situation, but he knew spying on him could also break their alliance. 

But, since the fugitive didn’t seem to mind, Tony threw away all his pretext and settled for the peace. “Is it safe for you to be parading around so openly?” 

Because technically that’s what he was doing. He wasn’t even  _ trying _ to hide, strolling around on a main street and buying things off corner shops, his face not hidden by any covering besides his loose hoodie.

Stiles gave a small smile to the man who rang up his purchase, before speaking into his bluetooth earpiece. “On the contrary, the safest place for me is out in the open.” 

“Run that by me again?” Tony frowned. 

“SHIELD wants to keep this on the down-low as much as possible, so they won’t attack me head-on.” He ducked out of the shop and walked a short distance to a public toilet. “Because all of this is off-the-books, this situation is unprecedented. They want to avoid panic, blame and an all-out power-struggle. That’s the only reason they haven’t notified the local authorities to help with my manhunt.” 

Stiles went into a stall and closed the door. Flipping the lid on the toilet seat, he pulled his purchase out from the carrier bag and got to work. He was finished with everything he needed to do well under a minute. “Considering the CIA tried to bag me a couple minutes ago, I’m sure they’d like to keep it that way as well.” 

“Just don’t end up in a ditch somewhere, you’d be no use as a partner to me if you’re dead.” There was a digital notification that sounded from Tony’s end of the line, signalling a complete trace. “Found what you’re looking for, I’ll send you the intel now.” 

The phone on his back-pocket vibrated with the incoming message. Stiles fished it out and memorized the address before slipping it back. “Got it.”

“Well, whatever you’re planning to do—” Tony swivelled back in his chair, playing with the cube of mystery he was still trying to figure out “—good luck.”

Flushing all evidence down the toilet, Stiles walked out the stall and stared down his predatory reflection at the mirror. 

“I don’t need luck.” 

***

Clint Barton had a lot of doubts, about a lot of things. 

First off, he doesn’t believe  _ anything _ that’s happening. He knew Stiles, he mentored him when the young agent took over their Delta squad. In a way, as much as Stiles was Fury’s protege, he was his too. 

So he knew, this was not possible. Even when all the evidence points towards him as a sole culprit, with eye-witness testimony from two of their own agents, he can’t bring himself to even entertain the idea that Stiles has gone rogue. 

Not that he wasn’t capable of it—Agent Stiles Stilinski was a man to be feared. Half the reason why Clint picked him as his successor was because of the very fact that the man was cunningly dangerous and viciously charming to throw anyone off their feet. Stiles could very well go rogue, and he’d give the entire world for a run. 

But it’s the other half of that reasoning that matters. His humane half. As merciless as Stiles could be, he was never without compassion. Stiles Stilinski was a human before he was an agent—and that was the most important distinction that did it for Clint. Because he and Natasha lost that distinction for years until they regained it when they formed the Avengers. 

Stiles would  _ never _ kill his team. He would rather cut off all his limbs than let that happen. And he would not, in any circumstances, kill Derek Hale. They were partners, in work, in life, in love, in everything. Clint would even go so far as to say that they were soulmates. 

He knew that Stiles couldn’t have possibly done this. 

So then his doubts began, and with it a snowball became an avalanche. 

After he’d gotten over the initial shock, he started investigating. Clint didn’t know about Natasha’s perspective on this, but he knew that nobody would believe him—hinder him, even—so he went off to do his own digging.

Everyone was so caught up in the heat of the moment that they’re just focusing on  _ catching _ Stiles, and paying no attention to everything else. So, Clint considered  _ everything _ and relied on deduction and logic. 

His first thought was this: even if Stiles didn’t do it, the fact that it happened is undeniable. So he started gathering evidence about  _ what _ even was happening.

He acquired the mission file, which was troublingly hard to get since it was filed as a Level 10 clearance. This alone had propped up a bunch of red flags, because even if the Delta Team was a specialized exception, they rarely got Level 10 clearance missions mainly because no one  _ has _ level 10 clearance. 

He doesn’t even have Level 10 clearance, not even  _ Captain America _ has Level 10 clearance. Level 10 clearance was exclusive for board of directors, and missions filed under those are executed rigorously through backchannels and more backchannels of teams for many reasons including confidentiality and staying under the radar. 

If you want something done confidentially, you don’t assign the most famous, or even  _ in _ famous, STRIKE team known to SHIELD history. Because with that fame comes a spotlight no matter how hard you hide it. 

But Clint Barton was a master at vantage points and blindspots, so getting the file was the easiest step in this process. The inside was much more troubling. 

There was no information, this was a blind mission. From what he’d seen in security footage tracking Stiles’ movements the day of the mission, he  _ knows _ that Stiles was assigned this op on the day it was due. 

Clint knew Stiles wouldn’t possibly take a mission like this, with such short notice especially when going in blind. But he was in and out of Fury’s office within the span of less than 5 minutes. 5 minutes is not a lot of time, but it  _ does _ say a lot. It says that even with all the risks, Stiles took this mission so easily and there’s only one reason he would do that: Fury. 

Director Fury was Stiles’ mentor and father figure. The young agent respected the man with every bone in his body, even if he did express it with the elegance of a rebellious teenager. This was the man who convinced Stiles to kill  _ for _ him; to live as a glorified weapon and soldier under  _ his _ orders; to strangle his own morality to the borderline and  _ still _ continue to dirty his hands despite it. Clint knew there was a reason behind the level of dedication, but he just couldn’t get Stiles to tell him about it. 

So, Fury must’ve asked him to do this—and genuinely. And when he brought that piece of the puzzle in, he realized that Fury knew more than he was letting on. Not that that’s out of character, the man was built on secrets, but this time it was more than just secrets. 

Clint has the slightest suspicion that Fury has a role to play in this whole case. But Fury favoured Stiles more than he did Agent Hill, he wouldn't have given them the case if he knew this would happen. So he filed it to the back of his brain and moved on with things he  _ could _ get an answer on. 

Which was the timeline of what happened. And that was about the only information that he knew was a fact:

Stiles got the mission from Fury. The mission was a simple extraction, to retrieve something that has been stolen en route. A couple hours later STRIKE Team Delta met up with Agent Ward and Ryder and four other CIA operatives. The op was carried out. The STRIKE team ended up dead along with the CIA agents and their targets, leaving a heavily injured Agent Ryder and a banged up Agent Ward. Then, Stiles goes missing. 

No one can deny these 6 facts. There was a period of time that he couldn’t find conclusive evidence of what happened within it, and that was the time the operation was carried out. There was Agent Ward’s testimony, and that was the linchpin holding up Stiles’ warrant for arrest. 

Clint Barton didn’t trust Agent Ward’s testimony for shit. Agent Stilinski and Ward were never on good terms, and Clint never had much trust in humanity to say that Ward wouldn’t sabotage him if he had the chance. 

But he couldn’t prove anything. And  _ that _ was his next move.

Evidence. It was  _ alarmingly _ quick how Agent Stiles Stilinski was branded as a traitor, especially for such a high level agent. There normally would’ve been a lot more evidence gathering, but for some reason, the conclusion was reached in under a day and filed away as a fact just like that. 

That verdict lies on two things: direct testimony from Agent Ward and circumstantial evidence. The circumstantial evidence comes in the form of a ballistics report, matching the bullets and gun model used to kill all agents on scene with the one Stiles was known for using. 

Stiles was  _ exclusively _ known for his gun style, he was after all the second best marksman SHIELD had after Clint himself. Natasha would fall just a little short under him, then Agent Hill, then Fury. 

Why would he, a known marksman, use his own famous weapon and rat himself out if he were to plan a betrayal? 

This whole thing just reeks of sloppiness, which was not in Stiles’ repertoire of skills. And this wasn’t his style. If Stiles really wanted to betray them, he’d do it in a way no one would ever see coming. 

That brought him to where he was now, breaking into their evidence unit to run his own ballistics test. The results stayed the same--the bullets matched the gun model that Stiles used. There was no denying that, and this made a pretty solid case, even he would admit it. 

But. Stiles was much more careful than that. 

Clint fished the bullet out again and placed it under the microscope, before looking at it closely, turning the bullet every which way to inspect it. That’s when he saw it. 

Or more specifically, didn’t see. 

Stiles had a quirk. He knows his reputation, and he knows the risk that comes with it. To set up a safeguard, he decided to leave a bit of himself in every op, kill, or mission he took. This was a double-edged sword. Because yes, it is vitally incriminating but also it gives him the perfect defense for when someone tries to set him up. 

He can own up to the things he did—he’s not blind about how easily swayed their moral conscience can be. They were soldiers, Stiles understood that perfectly. So if worse comes to worse, he’d be held accountable for the things he did do and that was fair. 

For obvious reasons, not many people knew he did this. Stiles was very secretive about this safeguard he had, and Clint was one of the three people he’s told.

The signature he left was in the bullets he shot. The gun that he used, although attainable with the right resources, was special. Because it was faulty. 

There was a scratch in the inner linings of the gun’s barrel—so that when a bullet passes through it in firing, the bullet gets the tiniest hairline jagged lightning bolt scratch. 

This one Clint was inspecting did not have Stiles’ signature scratch. Although it matched his gun, and the gun was registered under Stiles’ name, Clint would bet that this was his back-up gun he kept. And this back-up gun was easily acquired with the right access codes. 

No one would bring a back-up gun of the same model, because that destroys the purpose of having a back-up.

Now he had clear evidence that Stiles did not do this. But it was evidence he couldn’t prove without telling Stiles’ secret signature that he specifically kept hidden. Until Stiles came back to reveal it himself, Clint had his hands tied. 

The archer sighed and leaned back against the chair he was on, rubbing his eyes from the intense activity of checking each bullet. Except for giving him clarity, this didn’t help him progress at all. It doesn’t explain any of the other questions and red flags that this whole thing was shrewd under. 

So yes, Clint Barton had a fuck tonne of doubts about possibly everything at this point. And he was no closer to figuring what the hell was going on. 

He’s just praying on false gods that he’d figure it out before this all goes to a point of no return. 

*** 

The trace address led him to a 3rd floor apartment above a record shop. On the stairway up, he spotted half a dozen cameras leading up to the apartment but Stiles wasn’t all that bothered by it. 

They wouldn’t run, they won’t risk it. Why would they? They should know by now that catching him was harder than they thought, so him knocking on their doors voluntarily was probably the best chance they have. 

So, Stiles leisurely walked his way down the corridor and stopped in front of the door. He waited a second to see if anything would happen, but decided to take his gun out and fuck it all. 

Shooting the door lock, Stiles kicked it wide open with brute force. The scene that met him was less than he expected—the apartment was stripped bare, the dividers all gone and instead opened up to a makeshift command centre, with desks conjoined together around a huge monitor propped up in the middle. There weren’t that many people, he counted about 6 upon entering, but he could definitely tell who was in charge. 

“Heard you were looking for me?” Stiles walked into the stunned room, no one dared to move against him at that very moment. He figured these were not combat agents, or at least not good ones, they were office agents by the looks of it. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re all thinking.”

He ignored most of the footsoldiers and continued his path onto the agent in charge, sitting on top of a desk by the glass window with the curtains pulled. The agent was a woman, sleek in a navy suit, her arms and legs crossed as if she’d been sitting there waiting for him. 

“I could but, I’d rather not.” Stiles continued, spinning his gun around his finger by the trigger handle before throwing it up in the air. 

The gun spun in mid-air, catching the center of attention while Stiles did a quick recon of the room layout, weapon placements and exit-strategies. He caught the gun back within seconds. “Let’s get down to the chase, shall we? You’ve sent your men after me, which means there’s something I have that you want.” 

This is where he drew the bait. In interrogation with people who could keep a secret within an inch of their life or lie like a shark at a poker night, the best way is through trickery. They won’t give you an answer with a forward question, so all you need to do to get the truth is to roll the dice and see if they’ll bite.

“All I want in return is intel.” Stiles finished off his proposition, a smirk well-painted on his face. 

The woman uncrossed her arms and settled them on the edge of the table she sat upon. “Assuming what you say is true, what kind of intel are you looking for?” 

The CIA has no qualms with him personally, so they were his best bet at answers. They wouldn’t mind giving away information if it doesn’t harm them personally and SHIELD was always a thorn in their side. It’s a win-win. 

“Everything you have on SHIELD.” Stiles waved his finger in the air. “Including their involvement in this mess.” 

She pinned him with a look that gave away nothing in her expression, but less than a minute later she agreed. “I need to see if you have it first.” 

Stiles blinked.  _ Here goes nothing. _

“I guess that’s fair.” He dropped his bag from his shoulder and zipped it open, his hand reaching in and pulling out— 

“This is what you wanted, right?” 

—a film reel. 

There was silence that drowned the room, where nobody moved or spoke a single word. Stiles watched her reactions like a hawk, as subtle as he could. Of course, this could be a potentially dumb plan, since he was holding a film reel that he pulled out of a $4 disposable camera he’d just bought, but if it worked then—

“Alright, you have a deal.” 

—then he’d have all the confirmation he needed. This proved it. The CIA had no fucking clue what was in that briefcase, probably had less of a clue than he did. But even with little to no information, they still put high stakes upon making sure they get their hands on it. 

Tony Stark better protect that fucking cube with his life. 

“Now what is so important in this tiny little thing that would get everyone’s panties in a twist?” Stiles played with the film in his hands, turning it around to catch the light. “I think I deserve to know, considering you’ve painted me as your scapegoat.” 

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a matter of national security.” 

Scoffing, Stiles walked forwards to put the film reel on top of a CPU, making sure his movements seemed careless instead of thought-out. “I’ve heard that line before.” He stopped in his steps. “But if that’s true, then this is more NSA’s jurisdiction isn’t it? Or the FBI’s maybe, but definitely not yours.”

There was a twitch in her eyebrow that tells him he’s hit a nerve. 

“I have some contacts who would be very interested to know where your goons have been loitering around lately.” Stiles pointedly looked around the room as he gave a slight shrug. “Who knows? Maybe your answer will be enough to shut my loose-lips.” 

Here it was, Stiles could tell that she was going to bite and tell him. He’s always gotten his way no matter what happened—and he’s not going to stop now. The agent gave out a soft sigh and nodded to one of her subordinates, the subordinate in question immediately started to type furiously into his keyboard. 

She looked back at him slowly. “All we know is that this came up on our radar, from one of our assets that went dark. The last we heard from him was a message saying that this should never get out and fall into the wrong hands, or else the consequences will be catastrophic.” 

Catastrophic. That was a word you don’t hear very often, and Stiles acknowledged it. There were only a few scenarios he could think of that warrants the use of those words, and none of them were good. 

“Why is SHIELD involved in this then?” Stiles asked. 

The woman straightened her posture. “Everything you want to know will be on the files we’re handing over to you, but they reached out to us first.” 

_ Wait, what? _ Stiles blinked at the woman in confusion. SHIELD was the first to reach out? That was—odd. “Do you remember the agent that reached out to you?” 

“Of course I do.” The woman stood up from her desk. “It was—”

She couldn’t finish her answer, unfortunately, because the second her mouth opened, the rest of her head did too. 

The loud resounding sound of the glass breaking along with her head cracking open by a long heavy bullet was followed by the startled screaming of her subordinates, as her body fell to the ground. 

Stiles stood there, his jaw dropping and his eyes widening.  _ What the fuck just happened? _ He stood there looking at the carnage and he felt the burning rage in his gut firing up. 

Before he could do anything, another scream erupted from the other side of the room, along with the windows breaking and bodies falling down.  _ Fuck _ .

“Sniper!” He shouted as he ran for cover. Out of the six officers he counted, 4 of them were now dead on the ground along with their superior.

The bullets were now missing their targets since everyone ran for cover under their desks, and for a moment complete silence could be heard. Stiles was absolutely sure this wasn’t the end of it, but some of the officers were starting to move. 

“Stay down!” 

But it was too late, the sniper had already spotted their movement. However, instead of sniping them one by one, the next incoming that came wasn’t a bullet—it was something longer and fuller than a bullet. 

It was beeping with a red light. 

You can’t fire grenade shots with a sniper rifle, Stiles thought rationally as he stared at the weird weapon 6 feet away from him. The grenade would implode by the firing mechanism of a rifle. But—a smoke bomb could definitely be modified to fit into a rifle. 

After all, he’s used one before. 

The moment it clicked, the beeping stopped and gas started pouring out furiously from the little device and filled up the room rapidly. Stiles used his feet to kick back from the desk he was hiding behind to slide towards the door, making sure to stay close to the ground.

But the gas wasn’t just smoke, it was also toxic judging by how his eyes started to itch and his throat burning. 

_ Fuck _ . He’s gotta get out of here. Thinking quickly, Stiles aimed his gun towards the ceiling, roughly around the spot he remembered seeing a sprinkler and pulled his trigger. His lucky shot brought down a rain of water on the room as the alarms blared and the sprinkler shot to action. 

With the water fighting the gas, he took it his chance and ran. 

*** 

Stiles kept running and running, torturing his lungs to breath in more oxygen to flush away the toxins working in his body. He stopped after a couple blocks once he’s deemed himself to be far enough from the scene of the crime. 

He bent over his knee and took a short break in an alley-way.

They were being watched. The CIA team that was overseeing the godforsaken mission he partook in--they were being watched. They didn’t know anything about this whole thing, and yet they were still being watched so that they could be disposed of once something went wrong. 

Stiles was what had gone wrong. They only started attacking when he had ventured close enough to the windows--so he might’ve been the target as well. 

And now he was walking away with no intel, no leads and the only person who was willing to give him an answer, dead. Not to mention one hell of a fuck-up job to his lungs. 

“Fuck!” He wheezed. 

Stiles closed his eyes as he leaned against the brick wall in the alley, taking deep breaths to calm his haphazard coughing.  _ This is not over.  _

This isn’t ideal, but he’s still got a few tricks up his sleeves.

This will work. It  _ has _ to work. 

For Scott. 

For Allison. 

For Lydia. 

For _Derek_. 

He will  _ make _ this work. 

A footstep echoed in the long back alley, loud and clear like the sound of bells. The sun had started to set on the city, casting shadows and painting gloom all over. It was suitable really, matched the mood perfectly well. 

Signalled the end of a bright day, and calling the uncertain darkness of a long-winding night. 

Which was exactly what happened. 

The footsteps stopped and Stiles didn't even have to turn his face to know who was standing there with him. Sooner or later, they were bound to meet. 

“Really, sending someone like you after little old me?” Stiles made sure his voice was as unguarded as it can get, lofty and airy. “This is starting to feel a bit personal.”

For a second, there was a silence that was heavy with assumptions made on both ends. But his new guest decided to respond to his quip. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Stilinski.” The man started off with a matched lightness in his voice. “We’ve all heard things about you, what you’re capable of.” 

Stiles chuckled, wiping his hands down the side of his pants. “Good things, I hope.” 

The joke was hanged and dry, and at this moment in time both of them knew they’re going in circles and couldn’t psyche the other out any longer. Stiles wasn’t going to make the first move, he didn’t want to either. Because he _ knew _ Captain Steve Rogers and he  _ knew _ he didn’t need to.

“Agent Stilinski, stand down.” Captain America flashed his shield, his voice the perfect tone for a bleeding-hearted superhero. “No one has to get hurt.” 

There he was, the nation's heartthrob in a red, white and blue glorified-spandex. What a picture. He used to appreciate it, back when he worked alongside him on the same side. But now that they were at opposite ends, now that it was directed at him—it makes him want to hurl. 

“Captain.” Stiles dropped off all pretenses of joking, his face turning steel with the coldness in his eyes. “I think it’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”

None of them would back down, and they knew how this pleasant exchange was going to end up in anyways. And none of them were looking forward to it. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” Steve’s voice went down into a lower register, a hint of a threat shining through his blue eyes even in the dark. “It’s your choice.”

The captain was clearly giving him an easy way out—and if this was about anything else, Stiles would’ve taken it. He knows SHIELD is compromised, but he doesn’t believe that Cap is in on it. He’s always been a soldier with a heart, even though he literally was a poster boy he still had his own morals. 

But this wasn’t about anything else. This was about  _ everything _ . 

“I’m good thanks,” Stiles decided. 

Steve sighed downwards into his chest before picking his head back up and tilting his chin higher, getting himself ready. Because he’s not afraid to admit that this was going to be a hell of a fight. 

“Do you really think you can take me down?” 

Stiles smirked at the question and saw within it, the minute the man changed from a negotiator to fighter. And he couldn’t help the glint of dangerous bloodthirst in his own eyes. He’s never had a spar with Captain America before, but he’s sparred plenty a times with Natasha Romanoff. 

Needless to say he lost and got his ass handed to him, multiple times over. But there was a reason she trusted him enough to hand the legacy of her team down to him. And a part of that reason was because even if it was just once— 

“I’ll take my chances.” 

—he won. 


End file.
